Altered Perception
by Sevlow
Summary: After Havoc goes AWOL while on a mission, everyone starts to wonder why he is acting so strangely.
1. AWOL

Roy Mustang glanced up as someone entered the room and immediately his blood started to boil. It was like a slow rush of rage, beginning in the pit of his stomach and spreading outward through his body, hot and tingling at his fingertips and the backs of his eyes.

"You're late, Lieutenant," he said very quietly, his jaw and neck aching with angry tension.

"Am I?" Second Lieutenant Havoc asked flippantly, tossing him a careless smirk without actually deigning to meet his eyes. Instead his gaze scanned around the room, as if Roy weren't important enough to have his undivided attention.

"_Twenty-six hours_ late," Roy confirmed, pushing himself up from his desk with as much patience as he could muster. "You were supposed to report in on _Monday_. And, really, being late for the report is the least of my problems with you at the moment. For your sake, I pray that you have a good excuse for all of this."

"Oh, I do. Rest assured."

Roy clenched his jaw and stood erect, shooting his other men a dangerous glance.

"Excuse us for a few minutes, if you would," he dismissed them, "Havoc and I need to speak privately."

"Yes, sir," Hawkeye said as Fuery and Breda nodded. The three of them saluted and hurried out of the office, shutting the door behind them, probably more than happy to be gone. They knew better than to even think of staying... especially when their colonel was in such a foul mood.

...Especially when the _cause_ of such a foul mood has just walked in through the door.

Havoc was late. _Beyond_ late. _Inexcusably_ late. He had been sent on a mission three days ago to help investigate a riot that had broken out in one of the high-security prisons, aiding Lieutenant Colonel Hughes' team as they tried to sort out the mess and clear out those prisoners who had been wounded or killed in the melee. Unfortunately, a fire had broken out in the prison's record hall, so it wasn't even completely certain that all the inmates were accounted for at the moment. All in all, was a huge fiasco and Hughes and his men had needed all the help they could get.

Havoc had volunteered to join them—most likely in an attempt to get back on Colonel Mustang's good side after accidentally trashing a week's worth of finished paperwork the day before... a mistake that Roy was still struggling to remedy—and had gone down to help sort things out, promising to arrive back in the colonel's office on Monday with a full report.

The thing was, he never showed up. According to Maes, Havoc went AWOL shortly after arriving at the prison. One group of soldiers saw him briefly the day after he'd disappeared, but when they tried to call him over he just flicked them a careless salute and vanished down another hallway. After that, no one had seen him until this very moment, when he so casually sauntered into the office as if nothing had happened.

"Well?" Roy prodded when the man remained silent, "Don't you have anything to say?"

Havoc cocked his head to the side, his eyes upraised to the ceiling, and placed his finger on his chin in a theatrical mime of deep thought. "No, not really," he said, the calm airiness of his words tightening the black coil of anger in Roy's gut, "Nor do I see why it's really any of your business."

"It most certainly _is_ my business!" Roy barked, storming over to him so that he could shout in his face, "I was genuinely pleased when you volunteered for a high-risk mission, but you've proven yourself unworthy to undertake anything more strenuous than filing, it seems! You have disgraced yourself as a lieutenant and you have disgraced me as your commander! You cannot abandon your post like this and I don't give a fuck what your reasons were! You are a soldier and as such you will do what you're told, _when_ you are told to do it, do you understand?!"

Havoc bought his gaze down from the ceiling and looked at his superior for the first time since he'd entered the room, their faces mere inches apart. Roy met his eyes squarely, but then his stomach clenched and he almost had to take a step backward from something that he saw in his gaze. Havoc seemed_ off_ somehow. Something about him just wasn't right in a way that made the colonel want to shudder, but he could not say _what_ exactly was so disturbingly awry. It was something about his eyes... something chilling and surreal... something than nearly gave Roy a headache just looking at him, as if he couldn't focus on him properly.

The colonel turned his back on him and moved back toward his desk to stare out the window—suddenly, irrationally unnerved—but then he shook himself and continued. "You crossed the line with this, Havoc," he said sternly, but more quietly, momentarily distracted from his anger, "You went too far. You fucked up and I'm not entirely sure that I can cover for you."

"Then don't," Havoc said simply.

"...You _don't _want me to cover for you?" Roy demanded incredulously, facing him again, "Do you even know what you're saying? General Hakuro has suggested demotion; do you _not_ want me to contest it? Are you out of your _mind_?"

Havoc smiled—a slow, creeping, almost lecherous smile.

"Maybe I am," he said softly, his blue eyes flashing as they caught some of the light coming in through the window. Immediately that feeling of disquieting wrongness that Roy had sensed before was back again, so intense that his skin crawled and his heart stumbled as if trying to escape from some unknown danger. Havoc stepped forward with an odd, lurching quality to his gait and once more Roy had to fight the urge to step back from him. But he held both his ground and his gaze as Havoc came to a stop right in front of him.

The taller man looked down at Roy appraisingly, lips pursed and eyes narrowed.

"Have you ever been stabbed, Mustang?" he asked.

"...What the hell does that have to do with anything?" Roy snapped, trying to pretend that his heart hadn't suddenly started racing with adrenaline, screaming at him to defend himself.

Havoc shrugged, a careless, innocent little expression. He leaned over until his lips very nearly brushed against Roy's ear and whispered, "Just wondering."

Roy didn't even see the knife, but he gasped as he felt the metal tear his flesh, the cold steel sliding through his organs, chilling them briefly before the hot agony had a chance to reach his brain. Instinctively, he reached up and clutched Havoc's arm in a death grip, too shocked to do anything else as the knife ripped into his stomach.

"You know, I could have just shot you..." Havoc mused quietly, his breath warm on the side of Roy's face and neck, "But this is much more personal, wouldn't you agree?"

Roy didn't answer, still struggling to collect his scattered thoughts as the jolting, indescribable pain of being impaled shot through him. Havoc laughed quietly, apparently pleased with his speechlessness and complete disbelief.

Havoc pulled the blade out with a swift jerk. The sounds of tearing meat and the ripping of wet cloth seemed to fill the room, muted only by Roy's heartbeat throbbing in his head. Havoc stepped back, smiling at him, his thumb caressing the blood-slick handle of the knife as if praising it for a job well done. Roy looked down at himself, slowly registering the sudden blossom of blood that was dying his military jacket from a dark blue to purple-black. He remained standing for another beat, placing one hand over the gushing wound in his abdomen, but then he tottered and had to catch himself on his desk. Blood poured from the wound and dribbled onto the carpet. He stared at it, smelling the warm metallic tang, still not quite believing. It was so unreal that he almost felt like laughing.

Jean Havoc?

Playing assassin?

Ridiculous. Can't be happening.

The edges of his vision dimmed and then suddenly he was on his knees, still gripping the desk with one hand to keep himself upright. And Havoc just stood there. Still smiling.

It couldn't be real.

"Well, I have more work to attend to," Havoc sighed after a moment, turning to walk back toward the door, his legs carrying him stiffly as if they didn't want to obey, "I think I'll start with that bitch, Hawkeye. I never did like her." He laughed quietly to himself then flicked the bloody knife in a little wave of farewell over his shoulder, spattering some of the thick, congealing redness onto the back of his shirt. "See you in Hell, Mustang."

Roy watched his retreating back grow dim and blurry. Breathing hard and head swimming in his pain, he reached down to his belt and pulled his gun from the holster.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"...Nah, I think this will blow over like it always does," Breda was saying dismissively, waving his hand as if to dispel any doubt, "The colonel will be angry for a while, but he'll cool off and find a way for Jean to get out of this mess. That's what always happens. Same old story."

Riza frowned, but didn't say anything. She wanted to believe that, for Havoc's sake, but somehow it just didn't seem feasible this time. He had gone missing while working on a high security mission and had thereby sullied Mustang's name as a leader. Not that the colonel was really in trouble... but the higher-ups always point at the commander if a soldier goes astray. Mustang was a fairly lax superior, but if you crossed him or put his own goals in jeopardy in any way... you could pretty much kiss your sorry ass goodbye.

Riza, Fuery, and Breda were all in the break room next to the office, waiting either for Havoc to go storming down the hall or for Mustang to call them back in. Riza sighed and took a sip of coffee. She honestly didn't know how this was going to turn out, and so did not join the colonel's other staff members in playing supposition. She just sat back and listened idly, her eyes locked onto Mustang's closed office door across the hall.

"I dunno..." Fuery mumbled, "The colonel looked pretty mad. What if he kicks Jean out? I mean, I like Jean. He's a great guy... but sometimes he's—"

"A careless idiot," Breda finished for him, crossing his arms, "And yeah, Mustang's pissed... but it's not like Jean fucks up often. Maybe he'll cut him some slack. I mean, come on, this is _Mustang_ we're talking about... he lets Fullmetal off the hook for worse than _this_..."

There was a brief, considering silence. Breda was right: the colonel did have a soft spot for all of his men—no matter how vehemently he denied it—and had frequently given Fullmetal more leeway than Riza had once thought him capable of. As many times as Ed had damaged Roy Mustang's reputation as a military leader, he was always eventually forgiven. Perhaps Havoc would be treated the same way... with anger and harsh words, but no real punishment.

A sudden noise echoed from outside the room and Riza's heart jumped, startled by the sound of two distinct, roaring bangs.

"Was... was that gunfire?" Fuery asked, eyes wide.

The three of them looked at each other, then at the office door. A beat passed and then, in unison, they bolted toward it. Fuery yanked the door open and they stormed inside, all of them drawing their guns.

Havoc was crumpled on the floor in an unceremonious heap, leaking blood from the two bullet-holes that had torn through the legs of his uniform. He was laughing hard, head thrown back, as if bleeding heavily were the funniest thing in the world.

"Oh, man! I can't believe you actually fired!" he howled, "Looks like you've finally grown a pair of balls, you motherfucker!"

"KEEP HIM DOWN!" the colonel roared over him, his voice adopting a powerful quality that his men only ever heard on the battlefield. Hawkeye complied instantly, driven by his voice to tackle Havoc and force him flat on his stomach. She straddled him and pulled his arms roughly behind his back, prying the knife from his hand and tossing it aside. Havoc struggled and cursed, no longer laughing as Hawkeye bore down on him, but he wasn't going anywhere. Typically, Havoc probably would have been strong enough to throw her off, but he was already wounded and probably weakened by pain and blood loss.

"Oh..." Breda moaned suddenly, "Fuery, call an ambulance."

Riza raised her head to see him hit his knees beside the desk as Fuery rushed to obey. Only then did she see the colonel. He, too, was on the floor. He was kneeling, his brow leaning against the side of the desk, one quaking hand still aiming his gun at Havoc, the other holding his stomach. Blood coated his hand and the front of his uniform in a widening stain, seeping from between his fingers and turning his white glove crimson.

"My god, Jean..." Riza breathed, horrified, "What have you done?"

"Come on, sir..." Breda said shakily, taking Mustang by the shoulders and coaxing him into lying back on the floor. Mustang hissed in pain at being moved, but allowed it without further complaint. His face was absolutely gray, beads of cold sweat forming on his brow as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the carpet, jaw clenched, breathing hard.

Breda took the colonel's gun and put it aside, then quickly shrugged out of his jacket and wadded it up. He pressed the sturdy cloth hard against the wound, trying to stop the blood flow. The added pressure made Mustang's body go rigid, his eyes flying open with an agonized gasp.

"_F-fuck!_" he cursed through clenched teeth, his back arching against the spasm of pain as he visibly held back the urge to scream.

"Sorry, I know it hurts..." the second lieutenant winced, blanching. "Fuery is calling for the medical team right now. Just hang in there, okay?"

Mustang nodded, panting heavily, his bloody fingers digging into the carpet as he allowed Breda to put pressure on his wound unaided. The colonel turned his head and looked at Riza, raising his eyebrows questioningly, silently asking her if she had a secure hold on Havoc. She gave him a quick nod, some far off, giddy part of her laughing at the though that he—badly wounded, perhaps even mortally so—was still trying to stay in control of everything. His face was so entirely calm, his expression almost soothing to look at. Riza realized on some level that that was probably due to shock, but she pushed away such pessimistic thoughts and tried to adopt his quiet serenity, clenching her jaw and exhaling slowly.

But then his eyelids fluttered weakly and he had to force them open again, clinging desperately to his floundering consciousness. Riza's desperate calm shattered.

"How bad is it?" she asked, her heart shuddering as she watched her colonel weakening before her eyes.

"Bad," Breda said tightly, "He's losing a lot of blood. The wound looks big."

"If you'd just let me go, I could get help," Havoc said with an eerie, singsong quality to his voice, his muscles tensing under her as he made another feeble attempt to escape.

"D-don't you... dare... Hawkeye..." Mustang panted, his heavy, unfocused eyes turning her way again.

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir," she hissed, crushing the betrayer's face down against the floor brutally. Havoc chuckled again, completely unfazed.

Mustang watched them for another moment, his breathing becoming increasingly labored, then his bleary eyes fell shut and his head lolled to the side limply.

"No... Come on, Colonel," Breda said, patting his clammy cheek, "Stay with us."

The colonel's eyes drifted open again dreamily, but it was clear from his hazy, inconstant gaze that he wasn't really awake anymore. After a moment they closed again and he went entirely still.

And once again, Havoc laughed.


	2. Interrogator

Maes Hughes leaned forward, his open palms pressed against the cool surface of the table in front of him as he stared at his prisoner. The naked bulb above them swung back and forth a little on its wire, making their hunched shadows on the table sway in a mindless rhythm, like two broad-backed cobras fighting for dominance.

"Why?" he asked finally, his voice filling every corner of the sparsely furnished cell. He'd had a whole speech worked out before coming into the interrogation room, a whole line of strategically planned questions, but suddenly all that was gone from Maes' head and all he wanted to know was _why_. Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc had always been a loyal soldier to Roy Mustang, had always been kind and obedient to him, had always followed orders and had even entertained a kind of somber hero-worship for the celebrated colonel... so _why_? When had the change in heart occurred? What had caused it? How could he have possibly thought that he could get away with assassinating a high-ranking officer in the military's Central headquarters?

All these questions and more banged around inside of Maes' head, but for now, _why_ would be sufficient. He'd wanted to start questioning the man immediately, but the man hadn't even been released from the hospital for his bullet wounds until last night and the law had barred him from really talking to him until today.

"He had it coming," Havoc finally answered, disinterested, his cold blue eyes watching the light bulb swing. "...Did I kill him?"

Maes clenched his jaw and didn't answer. This was why he typically had his subordinates do the interrogating; Maes always got too emotionally involved in his cases, and this one was no exception. Truly, he had more reason to be emotionally involved in this case than in any other. This... this _monster_ had stabbed Maes' best friend, the man he'd sworn to protect, and Maes couldn't deny that he felt vengeful. He was both enraged and anguished and perhaps he shouldn't have insisted on being the interrogator... but, damn, he wanted this.

He wanted to take Havoc down and tear him apart for what he'd done to Roy.

"I _did_ kill him, didn't I?" Havoc grinned, interpreting Maes' silence as confirmation. The rocking passage of the bulb briefly lit the lieutenant's eyes, making them glow eerily white for just a split second in the dusky room, "Excellent."

Maes backhanded him hard across the face and was rewarded by his grin disappearing in a cloud of surprise as his head was snapped to the side. The lieutenant froze like that for a moment, remaining completely motionless with his face still turned away, staring blankly at the featureless wall to his right. His lips moved vaguely, but no sound came out, as if he were talking to himself or silently praying. About ten full seconds passed before he blinked and looked at Maes again.

Maes frowned inwardly, wondering what that had been about... but then Havoc's smile returned to his wide mouth in the form of an amused smirk.

"Oh, have I pushed a button, sir?" Havoc asked silkily, his voice like gray ash smudged between two fingers—smooth, but still dirty and corrupting, the dusty leftovers of destruction. "You two were very close weren't you? Like brothers, I'd wager. Perhaps even closer."

Maes raised his still-stinging hand to threaten another blow, but Havoc didn't even flinch, keeping his frigid eyes locked with his interrogator's. Maes knew that this was not a man who was going to be easily broken. Moreover, he was the type to goad his questioner, trying to anger him by prodding at open wounds in the hopes that he'll get so enraged that he'll make a mistake of some kind. Luckily, Maes didn't anger easily... but he couldn't deny that he was feeling absolutely murderous at the moment. He took a breath and lowered his hand, refusing to give in to Havoc's wrathful encouragement. He could not let his own feelings of betrayal get in the way of his job.

He slid his hand into his pocket and lightly fingered one of the photographs that he always kept there, drawing strength from his daughter's image.

"Alright, Jean," Maes sighed tolerantly, flashing him an amiable, careless smile, "If you don't want to talk right now, that's fine. I'll give you a moment to collect your thoughts. If when I come back, you still don't want to talk, that's fine, too. But just understand, Jean, that anything you have to say in your defense can only help you... because as it is, you are completely fucked."

He leaned forward a little and lowered his voice, tacitly demanding every shred of the man's attention. "I would kill you myself, right now, if it wouldn't cost me my job. But you aren't even worth the small amount of my energy that it would take for me to pull the trigger."

And with that, Maes straightened and left the room, leaving Havoc—still-grinning, undaunted Havoc—alone with his thoughts in the dim chamber. Maes turned a sharp corner into the small, dark room that sat adjacent to the interrogation cell. There was a largish window acting as a breach between the two rooms, each side of the glass lined with a gauzy black cloth so as to make it invisible from the more brightly lit interrogation side, but easily seen through from this side. Maes glanced through the window, saw that Havoc was still just sitting there quietly, then turned to the other two men in the room.

"Well?" he asked Breda and Fuery, "What do you think?"

"This is all just... so unbelievable," Breda mumbled, "It's like a bad dream. I mean, it's been three days already since the colonel... got stabbed... but I'm still reeling from it. It's all so unreal. I can't believe that Jean would do something like this."

"I know..." Fuery said gently, his typically soft voice made even weaker by emotional fatigue, "It's hard to think about."

"It's not just hard, Kain," Breda snapped at him, suddenly aggressive, "It's unbelievable. I literally can't believe it. I _don't_ believe it."

"Are you saying that you don't think that Havoc stabbed Roy?" Maes asked with biting incredulity. "Then what the hell do you think happened? You think Roy stabbed himself, then planted the knife on Havoc and shot him in the legs to frame him?"

"Of course I'm not saying that..." he sighed harshly, rubbing his face, "But I've known Jean for years. He's my best friend. Maybe something happened to him. I mean, first he goes AWOL, then _this_? It's like he's a different person... This is just... he would never do anything like this."

"But he _did_, Heymans," Maes told him bracingly, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing in a brotherly way, touched by the grief he was clearly trying to keep back and a little shamed by his own harsh words. He knew how hard this must be for him.

"Yeah..." he rasped, looking back through the shrouded window, "Yeah, I know."

Maes bit his lip for a moment, then gave Breda's arm another squeeze and let him go. "So he never gave _any_ indication of wanting Mustang dead?" he asked, getting back to business. Breda _was_ Havoc's best friend, so just about any information he was willing to give on him would help.

"No, none. If anything, Jean had been sucking up to the colonel more than usual lately because Mustang had been kinda mad at him for accidentally tossing away some important paperwork last week. Jean _loved_ serving under Mustang..."

He stopped and shook his head, anguished and confused, still not wanting to believe that his companion had done such a horrible thing to their commander. Maes, being a generally kind man, felt a pang of sympathy. Breda and Fuery both were tottering on the edge of uncertainty. One of their closest, most trusted companions had just been arrested for knifing their superior officer... for them, the world must have been flipped upside-down and all they wanted to do was turn it rightside-up again. That's why they were here, standing in this dark room, looking at the fledgling assassin on the other side of the window and honestly not knowing whether or not they should hate him.

It is hard to look at a friend and see them as something evil, even if you know in your heart that the crimes they have committed are unforgivable. Maes counted himself lucky that he hadn't really known Havoc very well, for then he'd be facing the same soul-searing division that the two men in front of him were battling against now.

Maes sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, "Look, I know you two just want to help, but I don't think there is anything you can do here. If you want, though, it would be a big favor to me if you could go through his desk and see if you can come up with anything useful. I was going to send my own men over, but they'd probably ransack the whole office. You two have a better knowledge of both Havoc and the colonel and of any animosity there might have been between them."

"Yes, sir," Breda said as he and Fuery both saluted, probably just eager to do anything that was asked of them at this point.

Maes saluted back and ushered them back out into the hallway. He returned, by himself, to the dark little observation room, watching his captive. Havoc did not seem to feel Maes' eyes upon him and continued to sit quietly, cuffed hands in front of him on the table, his thumb nail working at the wooden surface as if trying to carve something. His head jerked to the side suddenly and he grimaced as if in pain, pausing in his task to stare blankly at the wall again. Seconds passed, then he shook himself and went back to what he was doing.

"...What made you snap, Havoc?" Maes asked the darkness quietly.

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"—And _of course_ I'm not saying that Mustang did it to himself... I can't believe Hughes even suggested that..." Heymans muttered, pulling out yet another drawer from Jean's desk so that he could dump out the contents and rifle through them, making the smell of dust and stale cigarettes roll upward from between the disturbed papers, "And he wouldn't even let me talk to him..."

"I don't think he meant anything by it," Fuery sighed gently, still flipping through the stack of files that had been on the desk, "He's upset, too... You aren't the only one who can't talk to his best friend right now, you know..."

Heymans ducked his head a little, struck by those words as if by a physical blow. Of course, Fuery was right. How could he forget that Hughes and Mustang had been best friends for as long as he'd known them? Sure, Mustang bitched about Hughes a lot and the two of them argued like an old married couple... but that's just how they functioned. How hard it must be for Lieutenant Colonel Hughes to sit in that interrogation room with the man who had plunged a knife into his best friend and not be able to just put a gun to his head and blow him away... Heymans didn't know if he would have that same self-control if their roles were reversed.

"I know," he admitted after a long, sad pause. He leaned his elbows on the table and ran his fingers through his short auburn hair, taking a deep breath. "I'm just... a little lost, I guess. If I have a problem, I go to Jean... If I have a_ big_ problem, I go to the colonel... and now neither of them can help."

Fuery didn't say anything for a beat... he probably didn't know what to say, but then he exhaled a soft breath. "We should probably call Hawkeye. See how things are doing."

"...Yeah," he agreed, resting his forehead against his palms, feeling his pulse beating at his brow. Vividly, an image of Mustang swam into his head, bloodied and unconscious, his cold, perspiration-sheened face gray with blood loss. Heymans had kept one hand on the man's carotid artery until the paramedics showed up, just silently willing his struggling heart to _keep beating_ as he tried to block out Jean's riotous, indecent laughter. Heymans shook himself and banished the image from his head quickly, straightening and forcing his hands to get back to work.

Of all the people in this office, Second Lieutenant Heymans Breda was probably the least susceptible to entertaining such dark melancholies, but this was one thing that he couldn't just shrug off and smile away. This was devastating. His vision blurred suddenly, but he quickly mastered himself and disguised his abrupt emotion by slamming his fist down onto the paper-strewn desk in frustration.

"Damn it, I don't even know what I'm looking for!" he shouted angrily, his mind and loyalty both torn like fragile, moth-eaten cloths, "What the hell does Hughes expect us to find? Does he think we'll just stumble upon a log entry in one of Jean's files that says he's feeling a little restless today and is going to murder Colonel Mustang?"

"...Wait, what?" someone laughed.

Heymans jolted and looked over to the figure standing in the doorway. It was Edward—cocksure, golden, proud little Edward—smirking as he strutted into the room.

"Someone is trying to murder Mustang?" he continued jokingly, "Can I help?"

"That's not funny, kid," Heymans said through gritted teeth—gritted, not with anger, but with grief. No one had told Ed what had happened yet. They'd been trying to contact him since that day, three days ago, when everything started to fall apart, but he'd been as unreachable as always. He didn't even realize the horrible thing he'd just said...

Ed's smile immediately vanished at Heymans' mournful words. Anger, Ed could handle—he even seemed to demand it sometimes when he felt he wasn't getting the respect or attention he thought he deserved and wanted to piss a few people off... Namely, Mustang—but his offhand insubordination was not met with anger as it usually was whenever he badmouthed the colonel. This time, it was met with sorrow and Ed's humor froze under the cold weight of this unknown sadness.

"Did something happen...?" he asked cautiously, intuitively. His clever eyes took in the room with a quick sweep, like a man sizing up his enemy from across the parched, lonely battlefield. Heymans saw Ed take notice of the bloody stain on the floor next to him, then his eyes darted over to the other, bigger bloodstain by the colonel's desk—the blood that Heymans himself had knelt in, desperately trying to stop up the source of it all, his hands covered in warm, slick, crimson fluid as Mustang gasped through agony and fought to stay alive.

And then, finally, Edward returned his gaze to Heymans, his eyes now wide with a half-understood kind of fear.

"What happened?" It was not a tentative question this time, but a sharp demand.

And so, very quietly, they told him.


	3. Exhale, Inhale

Ed didn't really know what to expect when he halted in front of that closed door. He just stopped and stared at it, eyeing the glinting steel of the handle, but not yet daring to reach for it. How could this have happened? He'd only been gone for a little over a week and everything had been fine here in Central when he'd left... How could things have gone so bad so quickly? How could just this one unforgivable, violent act change everything?

How could Lieutenant Havoc have done this? It was just so completely shocking. Ed never would have guessed the man capable of something so terrible as _stabbing_ the colonel... Truly, he liked Havoc well enough. They'd had some mild arguments over the years, but they'd still gotten along fairly well...

Breda had been so upset back at the office... Ed had never seen him so wrought. And Fuery had actually started crying before they left, though he'd tried to hide it by hurrying out of the room, mumbling that he needed to clean off his glasses in the men's room. Breda had just silently watched him go, then had quietly asked the Elric brothers to do him a favor and go see how Hawkeye was doing. Alphonse had agreed immediately, knowing how stricken she must be right now. Al liked Hawkeye a lot—and so did Ed, truthfully—and so now here they were... standing outside of a blank white door, too awkward to even knock.

Alphonse came to a stop behind Edward, not making any moves to push him forward, nor telling him that it would be okay to turn back. He didn't say anything at all, just put both hands down on his shoulders silently and waited.

Finally, Ed gathered his courage and knocked.

As he'd expected, Hawkeye answered. She looked surprised for a moment, but then smiled at them both in turn—sadly and warmly, her expression full of gratitude. Her eyes were red and puffy and Ed wondered briefly if she'd been crying or if she was just tired. Ed quietly chose to believe that she was just tired, because if rock-hard Hawkeye had been reduced to tearful grief, then the world must truly be broken beyond repair and Ed wasn't entirely sure that he was prepared for that.

Hawkeye stepped back and gestured for them to enter the small room, causing a gust of cool, sharply-scented air to waft passed Ed and out into the hallway. He shivered slightly as he stepped into the room.

"It's very considerate of you to stop by, boys," she said softly.

"It was Al's idea," Ed replied offhandly, his eyes traveling to the other side of the cramped room where he could see a bed, half-obscured by a thin white curtain. The curtain swayed slightly in the breeze coming from the open window on the other side of the bed, billowing out a little and then arching back concave as if mimicking the movements of respiration. Exhale, inhale. Exhale, inhale. Exhale...

"He's doing well," Hawkeye informed them gently, calling his attention away from the hypnotic curtain, "He's been shifting around a little in his sleep today... we're hoping he'll wake up soon."

"So, he hasn't regained consciousness at all?" Al asked, his voice low and disquieted, but still somehow managing to reverberate hopefulness in the cool, white-tiled hospital room.

Hawkeye shook her head grimly, her red-clay colored eyes wandering over to the bed as she leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. "We thought we'd lost him for a while. He stopped breathing right before the paramedic got there and he's lost a lot of blood... but he's stable now. He should be fine."

Ed swallowed, inwardly relieved but not willing to vocalize how worried he still was. This was _Mustang_ after all. _Colonel Bastard_. He wasn't supposed to get hurt like this. He was supposed to be irritating and condescending and mean and strong and dependable and heroic and...

"What... what, um, happened exactly?" Ed asked past the sudden ache in his throat, trying to ignore it, "I mean, Breda and Fuery told us that Havoc stabbed him... but why would he do that? Havoc's always seemed to like Mustang. He even told me off once for talking bad about him..."

Hawkeye shrugged. "We don't know. Lieutenant Colonel Hughes has been interrogating him since this morning. So far, he hasn't really said anything about why he did it."

A gentle shuffling sound came from the other side of the curtain and all eyes shot over in that direction. Ed could see vague movement silhouetted onto the curtain as the colonel shifted and then fell still again. The three of them kept watching for more movement, holding their breaths in anticipation, but Mustang remained motionless.

Hawkeye exhaled her anxious disappointment and cleared her throat, looking down at Ed again. "Havoc was in hot water even before he attacked his superior officer, though..." she continued, "He was helping out Hughes' team on that prison riot, but then he wandered off. When he finally came back, the colonel was livid. He was reprimanding him in the office when he stabbed him... And that's really all we know."

"But it just doesn't make sense," Alphonse piped, toying with his long white plume fretfully, coiling the silken strands around his huge metal fingers and glancing toward Mustang again.

"I know," Ed agreed, "This is just so... I mean, Mustang's yelled at me loads of times—dozens of times more than he's yelled at Havoc, I'm sure—but I've never _stabbed_ the guy." He stopped for a beat, then shrugged one shoulder. "It has crossed my mind once or twice, though..."

"_Edward_...!" Al scolded.

"Well, never _seriously_!" he retorted, turning to him with a pout.

"Ngh... God, you boys are loud enough to wake the dead..." croaked a raspy, masculine voice suddenly, making Ed's heart leap into his throat.

Hawkeye jumped as if electrocuted and then bolted over to the bed. She pushed back the curtain roughly, the rings it was suspended from making a bright _shink!_ noise as they scraped against the supporting metal bar. And then there was Mustang, lying on his back against the crisp white sheets, rubbing his face groggily with one hand.

In spite of himself, Ed's knees went a little weak with relief and he had to take a deep breath to steady himself. Good, the colonel was okay.

...Not that Ed really cared much or anything...

"It's about time you woke up," Hawkeye said, covering her own relieved joy with a wry smirk, though Ed could see that her hands were trembling slightly as she poured water into a small plastic cup from a pitcher beside the bed. She handed it to Mustang. He stared at it for a moment, dazed, then took it gratefully. He took a slow, tentative sip of the liquid and handed it back to her with a nod of thanks. "You've been out for nearly three whole days," she continued, "This is a new level of lazy, even for you, sir."

The colonel smirked back at her tiredly, his eyes closing for a moment before he caught himself and forced them open again. His bleary gaze wandered over to Ed and Al and he stared at them blankly, looking a little bemused.

"Al was worried," Ed explained quickly, pointing at his brother accusingly as if blaming him for a vase he'd broken, "He wanted to come by and see how you were." At this, Al made a soft, exasperated sound, but didn't contradict him.

"...Very kind of you, Alphonse," Mustang said—still looking at Ed—a tired, sardonic smile curling his mouth. Even as injured and unfocused as he clearly was, he didn't look fooled in the slightest. Ed felt himself blush deeply and he cleared his throat, quickly looking down at his shoes. Al chuckled softly behind him.

"Do you remember what happened?" Hawkeye asked him after a moment, drawing his sleepy attentions away from Ed.

Mustang hesitated, frowning softly, his typically quick mind working with a slowness that Ed found a little unsettling. "I'm... not entirely sure that I'm remembering this correctly..." he rasped, his voice hoarse with disuse, "Did... did Havoc...?"

"Yes, sir. He's been arrested for attempting to assassinate a superior officer. Investigations has custody of him now."

"Has... has he said why...?"

"No. He's not saying anything."

Mustang sighed and looked up at the ceiling, absorbing that. He looked wounded, and not just physically. It occurred to Ed that Havoc, like Hawkeye—like all of the colonel's staff, really—was more to him than just a subordinate. He was a loyal follower and a dear friend. How terrible it must be to be betrayed by someone whom you frequently entrusted both your life and secrets to. It was clearly a painful thing for Mustang to accept.

He was pensively silent for a moment. Then, as if he'd reached some kind of decision with himself, he sat up.

Or, at least, he _tried_ to sit up. All he really actually managed to do was gasp and fall back against his pillow, clutching his injured abdomen with one hand.

"Ow, ow, damn it, _ow_..." he hissed through gritted teeth, closing his eyes tightly.

"Well, what did you expect, sir?" Hawkeye said dryly, trying not to seem concerned, "You just got stabbed. You can't just get up and walk away from that."

He opened one eye to shoot her a dirty look, then took a breath and dragged himself slowly to sit upright against the head of the bed, his arms shaking weakly under the strain. He grimaced again as the movement put his torn abdominal muscles to work, but he didn't make any sound as he straightened himself. He took several deep, slow breaths, leaning his head back against the wall—clearly in a substantial amount of pain, as much as he was trying to hide it. The pallor of his face and the tightness of his jaw spoke louder than words.

He turned his head a little to look up at the thin IV line that was trailing down to his wrist from a clear glass bottle on the rack beside the bed. He looked at it thoughtfully, his breath still a little hitched, then reached up.

"They are _not_ giving me enough of this crap..." he muttered, fiddling briefly with the little valve next to the bottle's nozzle.

He sat back again and almost immediately the tenseness in his face started to relax a little. He leaned back against the headboard, closing his eyes again with a sigh as the increased flow of narcotics coursed through his veins. Ed smirked at him, remembering the deep relief of painkilling drugs while he'd been recovering from his automail surgery. Without the warm tingle of morphine in his bloodstream, Ed didn't know if he would have been able to live past the terrible pain that had wracked him every day for nearly a year. It's a wonder he hadn't gotten addicted to the stuff.

"Don't mess with it," Hawkeye sighed harshly and tightened the valve back to its original position. Mustang glared at her as she did it, but chose not to comment.

"Hand me my chart, would you?" he asked instead, gesturing toward the clipboard that he knew was hanging at the foot of the bed.

Hawkeye turned to obey. The second her back was turned, he reached up and increased the flow on the valve again, shooting a dangerous glace at both Ed and Al as if just _daring_ them to say something. Al looked away innocently, pretending that he hadn't seen, but Ed just shook his head and rolled his eyes at him. He wouldn't say anything... the man looked like he was still in pain and besides, it might be kind of entertaining to see him drugged out of his mind. Ed knew all to well what those drugs could do to a person... Al _still_ made fun of him for apparently proclaiming his love for Winry while under the stuff. Ed didn't remember any of it, but Al swore that he'd been practically gushing about how pretty her hair was. Ed's stomach turned with embarrassment just thinking about it, but the thought of Mustang in a similarly drugged state was funny enough to distract him from it.

Hawkeye turned back and handed him the clipboard. He took it and started reading over his condition, skimming vaguely as he flipped up the pages. As he was occupied, Hawkeye deftly tightened the valve again behind his back, arching a tolerant eyebrow at the Elric brothers. Nothing got past her, it seemed.

"It's not so bad..." the colonel mumbled, blinking as if his eyes were having trouble focusing on the page. Maybe it was a good thing that had Hawkeye cut off the morphine-flow again... it looked as if even that small increase had been more than enough. "My intestines were skewered, but the knife barely even grazed my stomach..."

"It's bad enough," Hawkeye countered.

"Only twelve stitches..."

"On the _outside_, perhaps."

"I've had worse."

"You have _not_, sir."

Mustang sighed and handed the clipboard back to her, his eyelids growing even heavier. He closed them and was silent for a beat then, abruptly, he said, "I want a full report on what's going on with Havoc, Lieutenant. See if you can get the hospital to bring a telephone in here. I want to have open communication with Lieutenant Colonel Hughes."

"...Yes, sir," she said, looking a little taken off-guard by his sudden shift into military professionalism. She saluted him and turned to obey, her shoulders back and her carriage erect, probably overjoyed to be taking orders from him again after watching him bleed half to death on their office floor.

There was a long pause in which no one said anything. Mustang was still as stone, eyes closed as he reclined in his hospital bed. His face was gray and exhausted looking, his lips dry and cracked and his brow slightly furrowed with the remaining discomfort that the drugs hadn't yet been able to sooth. Ed and Al exchanged a look, awkwardly wondering if they should just leave and let Mustang get back to convalescing, but then the colonel spoke:

"Is she gone?"

Ed jumped a little, startled by his abrupt speech. He turned and looked over his shoulder to make sure that she'd left.

"Yeah, she's gone."

"Good," Mustang said brusquely, opening his eyes. He straightened himself and yanked off the swatch of tape that secured his IV line to the back of his hand, then pulled the needle out and tossed it aside.

"Colonel, what are you doing...?" Al asked worriedly, one hand tentatively outstretched toward him.

"I'm leaving. I have a lot of work to do," he rasped, lowering his legs carefully over the side of the bed. He sat there for a moment, swaying a little, hesitating before actually attempting to stand.

He looked up at Ed calculatingly then beckoned for him to come closer. Ed paused uncertainly, but then shuffled forward and allowed Mustang to put a hand on his shoulder. Using Ed for leverage, Mustang tried to pull himself to his feet. Ed instinctively put a supporting hand on his back, trying to help him steady himself. Mustang grimaced and exhaled a sharp breath as he stood, but then he straightened and gave Ed a tight nod of thanks.

"Do you really think that you should be out of bed?" Ed asked, trying hard not to let his apprehension reach his voice.

"No," Mustang replied honestly, an oddly dopey smile quirking the side of his mouth, no doubt an inspiration of the morphine. "But I need to get a few things straightened out before I can rest. Come on, I need you to help me get out of here. Quickly, before Hawkeye comes back."

"Oh, what, so you want me to be an accomplice to your daring escape, now?"

"Uh-huh, that's pretty much the idea."

"This is a hospital, not a prison!" Ed protested, "Can't you just ask to be discharged?"

"Ha. It's funny that you honestly think the lieutenant would stand for that."

Ed clenched his jaw, frustrated but knowing that he was right. Hawkeye could be a very intense person when she wanted to be.

"Fine," he sighed as Al gave them both a worried, disapproving look. "Where are we heading?"

"First, to my apartment. I need clothes," he said, looking down at the powder-blue hospital gown he was wearing. True, he wasn't going to get very far down the streets of Central wearing _that_. "Then we'll go to HQ and try to figure out what the hell is going on with Havoc. I'd like to do a little of my own interrogating, I think." He paused for a beat, his woozy thoughts written darkly across his face, but then he looked up at Al. "Alphonse, if you'd be so kind, run ahead and call a cab for us. We'll meet you at the hospital entrance... it may take me a while to make it that far."

Al wrung his hands and made a low, uncomfortable noise, but then ducked his head in a bow and headed out. He stopped in the doorway at looked back at the colonel.

"Hawkeye is going to kill us, isn't she?" he asked.

"Quite possibly," Mustang piped with a sleepy kind of cheeriness, yet another strange effect of the drug in his system that Ed found both disturbing and amusing.

Al made another tiny, unhappy sound, and left the room.


	4. Haze

"...What is he doing?"

Maes looked over his shoulder. Breda was just stepping into the observation room, his eyes widening as he stared past Maes, through the window to the interrogation cell. Maes turned back to the window and clenched his jaw.

"I'm not sure..." he answered quietly, "He's been doing it for the past fifteen minutes."

Havoc was still in the interrogation room, waiting for Maes to come back and continue questioning him. At first, he'd just sat there at the featureless table—still carving things into it with his nails—occasionally jerking or shuddering in what Maes could only guess was some sort of spasm. After about ten minutes or so, he'd started rocking back and forth and fidgeting, his whole body twitching as he mumbled to himself.

Now, though, he was_ really_ acting strange.

Now, he was on the floor, abandoning the chair and table in favor of the cool grey tiles. He was leaning against the wall, his injured legs drawn up and his cuffed wrists resting on his knees as he slowly and rhythmically slammed his head back against the wall. He'd bow his head forward, then pause, then throw it back against the solid concrete—probably not hard enough to really injure him, but still hard enough to make the wall behind him rumble dully with each blow.

Bow... pause... _slam_! Bow... pause... _slam_! Over and over again. Mindlessly. Expressionlessly. His face was entirely blank, though his lips still moved a little as he whispered nonsense to himself, his blue eyes half-lidded and empty. Occasionally, he'd break his hypnotic rhythm by going completely rigid and covering his face with his hands, loosing a strangled, wordless scream that was so loud that Maes could hear it clearly even through the window's thick glass. Then Havoc would fall motionless and silent again for a few seconds before returning to hitting his head against the wall.

Bow... pause... _slam_!

Bow... pause... _slam_!

"There's something wrong with him, sir..." Breda breathed, the horror in his voice seeming to take on a solid form that fell like a cold, dead weight into the pit of Maes' stomach, "There has to be. Something happened to him while he was AWOL. It's the only explanation..."

"Or maybe he just went ape-shit," Maes countered uncertainly, "It wouldn't be the first time that a soldier's snapped under pressure..."

"But he wouldn't just snap for no reason! Something _happened_," he insisted, watching his best friend through the window.

Maes sighed, heart clenching. He didn't want to believe that Havoc was a victim, too. He wanted to hate him. He wanted him to pay for hurting Roy. He wanted to believe that he had had done this out of malice and violent rage... but now it was becoming more and more obvious that something within Havoc's mind was going wrong. Breda was right... something must have happened to him—something terrible—as much as Maes didn't want to accept it.

"...He's getting worse," was all that Maes could force himself to say.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They made it to Roy's apartment without much incident. The cab driver gave the mismatched trio some odd looks on the way there, but didn't go so far as to ask any questions about the short blond teenager, the antique suit of armor, and the clearly intoxicated man in a hospital smock who was sitting between them in the back seat. He just looked at them bemusedly through his rearview mirror, probably already formulating an entertaining story to tell his wife about them when he got home tonight.

Roy didn't mind the half-amused, questioning glances in the slightest. He did, however, feel a little more comfortable once he got into his apartment and changed into some decent clothes. He didn't know where his uniform was—it was probably bloody and torn anyway—so he opted to slip into a pair of black slacks and a white button-up shirt. Alphonse had to help him with his shirt because he kept missing buttonholes, his mind too full of the pleasant buzzing of prescribed narcotics to pay much attention to dressing himself properly. Worse than that, he nearly staggered back out to the cab without any shoes until Ed pulled him back inside and helped him put his boots on. His head was just _swimming_ and he felt like he couldn't focus on anything for more than a few seconds at a time. He knew that Ed was laughing at him, but Roy couldn't really find it in himself to care much.

He felt _good_.

Roy had quite forgotten how much heavy painkillers tended to affect him. It had been years since Roy had been on them, and back then it was only for dental surgery and whatever he was on now had to be at least ten times stronger than that stuff had been. He felt like he was floating, detached from his body, flying alongside the cab as it sped toward Headquarters.

Ed seemed to find the whole situation hilarious and kept asking Roy questions—random, often difficult questions that involved deep thought... which was a state of mind that Roy was having a great deal of trouble achieving at the moment. More often than not, Roy would either answer wrong or forget what the question was entirely, distracted by something he saw out the car window or by another wandering string of thought that really had nothing to do with anything.

Admittedly, in his chemically-altered state, Roy had to agree with Ed that it _was_ pretty funny, though. _Everything_ was funny. And beautiful. And good. The colors seemed brighter and everything was just so... _alive_. Everything had a pulse. The trees were breathing. The sky sang. Even the cab they were in thrummed with life, the engine pumping like a huge, angry heart to make the vehicle run. He'd tried explaining these thoughts to Ed and Al, but by the time he got to talking about the breathing trees, Ed was biting his lip hard to keep from laughing aloud. Only then did Roy pause for long enough to realize just how high he was and that he'd been in a babbling state of euphoria for the past twenty minutes.

That had been the slap in the face he'd needed to collect his thoughts and try to shake off his daze. The world was really not as wonderful as it seemed through these morphine-tinted lenses. For one thing, he was injured... and pretty badly, at that. He wasn't in much pain at the moment, but his condition was still fairly serious and he knew that he was going to have to be careful for a while so as not to tear his stitches.

Even more distressing than his recent injury, though, was Havoc. Havoc had betrayed him, had tried to _murder_ him... That was a savage blow that Roy was still reeling from. Beyond Hawkeye and Hughes, Jean Havoc was his most trusted ally. Havoc knew of his aspirations to start a revolution, of leading this country away from the wreckage of pointless war and into a golden age. He knew that Roy was actively seeking to overthrow the current government and take it over, placing himself at the apex of power. Oh yes, Havoc knew intimate details about Roy's desire to become fuehrer... he had even helped chart out years-long action plans to make it happen. He had always been a loyal and irreplaceable asset to Roy's team...

What the fuck had happened?

In all the years that they had been working together, Roy had never once doubted his loyalty. He had doubted his tenacity and his responsibility—not to mention his fluctuating ability to pay attention—but his loyalty had never come into question. _Never_. Havoc, like the rest of Roy's staff, had been hand-picked, carefully scrutinized and selected to help him reach his goals. How had Roy never caught on to his deception? How could this have happened? How could Roy have trusted this two-faced attempted-assassin for so long, never knowing the dark thoughts that lurked behind his eyes?

God, what if he'd been working for someone else this whole time? What if he was a spy for Bradley? Was Roy really that bad at judging a person's character...?

"I am an _excellent_ judge of character!" Roy declared abruptly to the occupants of the car at large.

There was silence for a beat, then Fullmetal snorted and bent double, giggling into his gloved hands. It sluggishly occurred to Roy that the car had been mostly silent for the past several minutes—before he'd broken the lull with his declaration, that is—and, moreover, no one in the car was privy to his inner musings, and therefore must think it quite out of the blue for him to so earnestly tell them what a great judge of character he was without any sort of preamble.

"...Well, I am," he insisted, brow furrowing.

"No one is saying that you aren't..." Alphonse said soothingly as Ed burst into new peals of mirth. Al shot him a look and he sobered himself quickly, trying to disguise his laughter as a coughing fit.

"Then how could I not see this coming?" Roy demanded, angry with himself even from underneath the medicinal haze, "Why didn't I see that he could betray be like this? How could I have been so blind? This could destroy _everything_ that I've worked for..."

There was a silent pause for a moment as the car pulled to a stop in front of the stately white HQ building.

Edward sighed, his laughter truly subsiding now. "Aw, don't beat yourself up about it... I guess you never really know a person. It happens."

"Not to me, it doesn't. I _do_ know people. I know how people think, I know how they behave..." he stopped, trying to compose his fuzzy thoughts into something that he could relate. He rubbed his face, frustrated by his own grogginess, "Damn it, I cannot _think_ like this!"

Fullmetal bit his lip and exchanged a glace with Alphonse. Finally, he cleared his throat, "Come on, Colonel. Let's get you inside... then someone _else_ can look after you."

Roy scowled at him, not in the mood to be patronized, but Ed just grinned back impishly and pushed open the car door. He paid the cabbie and then he and Al helped Roy out of the cab. He winced a little as he stood, the movement stretching his wound. Ed caught the brief grimace and his eyebrows knit together with silent worry. His half-hidden concern was both touching and irritating and Roy chose to ignore it. Instead he rested a hand on the boy's shoulder and used him as a living crutch as the three of them slowly made their way into the building.

And Roy did okay for a while. He was a little out of breath by the time they actually made it into the building, but that was probably to be expected. He had, after all, just undergone some fairly major abdominal surgery... he was bound to be a bit weak for a while... but he did okay. Ed was both silent and surprisingly patient with him, carefully guiding and supporting him as they shuffled through the building, stopping without comment or complaint whenever Roy needed to pause for breath.

Which, by the time they made it halfway there, was becoming increasingly frequent.

Roy was already exhausted. It seemed like every few steps he'd have to stop and focus on breathing, leaning against a wall for balance—and each time he stopped, it was getting harder and harder to get started again. The pull of drugs in his system was distracting and kept his thoughts in a giddy haze, but the more he moved around, the less they were doing to actually block his pain. His gut twinged with every lurching step, his insides aching in a sharp and constant throb that was getting worse with every passing moment. Soon he was trembling, his heart pounding so hard that each beat was like a physical hammer-blow to his chest.

"M-maybe this... wasn't s-such a great idea..." he gasped, half-laughing, clinging to Ed desperately as they staggered down the hallway.

"Colonel, this is stupid..." Ed told him with an exasperated sigh, coming to a halt without needing to be asked, "You need to go back to the hospital before you keel over and die. I'm going to be in enough trouble with Hawkeye as it is without you dying on me."

"What Brother _means_," Al added quickly, "is that we're worried about you. We can both see that you're in pain. It really is too soon for you to be walking around like this. You could hurt yourself..."

Roy shook his head, still breathing hard and not about to admit how good collapsing back into that hospital bed sounded. He'd made it this far and he wasn't going to turn back now. Moreover, there was no way in _hell _that he'd be able to make it all the way back to the hospital without collapsing, anyway.

Frankly, he wasn't entirely certain that he was even going to be able to make it to the end of the hallway without taking a nosedive into the floor, with or without Ed's support.

"..._Roy_?"

The voice came from behind them, sounding shocked and incredulous, and Roy recognized it instantly. He stiffened and grimaced, not looking forward to this confrontation.

He looked down at Edward and silently mouthed, _Run for your life._

Ed blinked at him as if not sure whether or not to take him seriously. And so, instead of fleeing to safety as any sane person would do, he turned and the two of them took in the vaguely intimidating sight of Maes Hughes rushing toward them, arms outstretched anxiously.

"My god, Roy... what are you doing here?" he asked, eyes huge. He came to a halt in front of them and looked Roy up and down with a critical eye, a worried frown carving itself into his face. "I didn't even know that you were awake. How could they release you so soon? You look _terrible_."

Roy tried to think up some kind of witty response to Maes' last statement, but his mind was full to the brim with the cotton-fluff of medicine, crippling fatigue, and suffocating pain... and that left very little room for any clever banter. And so instead he said, very intelligently:

"...Maes, I n-need to sit down or I think I'm going to faint."

Maes immediately swooped in and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, supporting him much more effectively than little Ed had been able to. Roy let go of the teenager and allowed Maes to guide him down the hallway and into a dark little room. He didn't pay much attention to his surroundings and just sank gratefully into the chair that Maes led him to. His wound complained as he sat down, but he just bit the inside of his cheek and tried to ignore the intensified pain, leaning his elbows against the scratched, paper-strewn table in front of him and resting his brow against his clenched fists, breathing as evenly as he could.

"...What is he doing here?" Breda asked, sounding both startled and concerned. Roy looked up at him, only now realizing that he was in the room. He was leaning against the wall next to a largish window that opened out into another chamber. It took a moment for Roy to recognize that he was in the observation room, but then his pulse quickened and he turned to look through the window, already knowing who would be waiting beyond.

And there he was, not seated at the table as Roy would have expected, but on the floor, his gaze distant. His hair was in disarray, blond strands hanging haphazardly in front of his fathomless eyes. His eyes themselves were red and unfocused, looking too bright in the room's dull light, as if he'd recently been crying. Roy stared at him, anger, hurt, and trepidation bubbling just below the surface of his skin—though the intensity of his emotion was dramatically dulled by the drugs in his system. All he could hear was a soft buzzing and the warm pulse of his heart, his mind calmly trying to convince his still-reeling mind that his lieutenant—his _friend_—was an enemy, now.

_He's an assassin. He has betrayed us all. He is the enemy,_ he told himself, unable to look away from him, still trying to work past his disbelief.

"...Roy, are you listening?"

Roy jerked his head up to look at Maes, who had apparently been trying to talk to him for a while, now.

"Ah, what...? Sorry, I'm not... all here..." he apologized blearily. Now that he was off of his feet and not worrying about falling over or struggling to breathe, the morphine was catching up with him again and all he really wanted to do was put his head down on the table and fall asleep.

"He took a pretty big hit of painkillers before we left the hospital," Ed explained to Maes and Breda with a smirk, "He was babbling like an idiot the whole way here."

"Why'd they let him out of the hospital to begin with?" Breda asked, looking between Ed and Roy, "I can tell just by looking at him that he's not well enough to be discharged."

"Well... he wasn't discharged... exactly..." Al mumbled, ducking his head like a young child in anticipation of a dire scolding.

"Al, shut up!" Ed hissed, kicking him in the shin. There was a loud clang as metal struck metal and it rang in the small room, making bright colors burst from behind Roy's eyes. He watched the dancing spots of color for a moment then shook his head, trying to clear it.

"They were going to find out eventually!" Al defended himself, "Why bother hiding it?"

"Wait, wait, wait..." Maes said, waving his hand, "You're telling me that he _wasn't_ discharged? So, what then? You just... took him out of there? Just like that?"

"Um, yeah. Basically... yeah," Fullmetal said, clearing his throat.

Maes and Breda both stared at him for a moment as Al took a step back. The youngest Elric looked as if he was trying to become invisible, a thought that struck Roy as hilariously funny, considering that the kid was a huge fucking suit of armor. Ha, they should have run when they'd had the chance...

"What the hell were you _thinking_, Edward?!" Maes shouted finally, slapping a hand to his forehead, "You can't just take people out of hospitals like this! What if something had happened before you got here? He just got _stabbed_ for heaven's sake! He's been in a _coma_ for the past three days!"

"But he told me to!" Ed sputtered, gesticulating wildly at Roy with one defensive hand, "He said he had work to do! Get mad at him, not me!"

Maes turned and glared at Roy, "And what the fuck are you smiling about?"

"...You know, I'm not entirely sure..." Roy rasped with a little shrug.

Maes rolled his eyes at him and ran a hand through his hair. "Whatever. Breda, if you could please take Colonel Mustang back to the hospital and tell the orderlies to make sure that he _stays_ there this time."

"Yes, sir," Breda saluted, looking as if he'd had the same idea in mind.

"No, wait," Roy protested, trying to sober himself a little—with only moderate success, "I didn't come all the way here to be sent away again; I want to know what's going on with Havoc."

Breda sighed and opened his mouth to speak, but at that same moment a low, muffled scream resonated from the interrogation cell and all eyes turned to stare out the window. Havoc had gone rigid, his tight jaw angled upward, his teeth bared. He dragged in a harsh, desperate gasp and screamed again, saliva glistening on his lips. It was a haunting sound that sent a frigid chill down Roy's spine, inflicting him with an alarmed kind of queasiness.

Havoc fell sideways onto the floor and curled in on himself, covering his face with his cuffed hands. His whole body shook as if he were under a great strain, the veins in his forearms popping up from under his sweat-damp skin, looking—in Roy's warped mind—like a clutch of thin, flesh-colored snakes slithering all over him.

"I'LL KILL YOU!" Havoc shrieked between screams, his frightened, enraged declaration dulled by its passage through the wall and into the awaiting ears in the observation room. "I'LL FUCKING _KILL YOU_!"

He loosed another grating scream, but then it abruptly cut off with a strangled, choking sound. His body relaxed a little, his hands falling limply from his face to rest on the floor beside his head. The tenseness in his face subsided and his eyes closed, his brow smoothing. He suddenly looked almost serene and Roy could swear that he saw the faint curve of a calm smile stretching the corner of his wide mouth.

Roy sat back in his seat, his heart suddenly racing again. _Oh... Jean..._

"...What the hell just happened...?" Ed asked breathlessly, voicing Roy's exact thoughts.

"We... don't know," Maes said, shifting uncomfortably, "He keeps doing it. It's getting worse but he wont say anything about what's wrong. He either dodges my questions or ignores me completely. And then, every once in a while, he just... freaks out like that."

"We think something happened to him while he was AWOL..." Breda added. Maes gave him a sharp look and seemed as if about to say something, but then changed his mind and stayed quiet. "That has to be why he stabbed you, but he won't talk about it. Do you remember him saying anything before he attacked you...?"

Roy leaned his head back against the seat and tried to think. He looked up at the ceiling, doing his best to ignore the fact that the room seemed to be spinning a little and tried to focus on the last thing he remembered before waking up in the hospital.

"He was acting strangely..." Roy said finally, grasping at the wispy, membrane-thin memory.

"How so?" Maes asked.

"I dunno... I can't really place it. It was just... weird. It was hard for me to meet his eyes without feeling... something..." He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Well, that was vague," Ed muttered, crossing his arms.

"Look, I'm trying here," he snapped back, rubbing his face, "I just woke up from a coma and I'm high as a kite, I'd like to see you do better."

"Pfft. Jeez, sorry, then..."

"Anything else?" Maes prodded, ignoring Ed.

Roy thought hard. "Well... he was walking a little stiffly. I didn't really think much about it at the time, what with there being a knife in my digestive tract and all... Last thing I remember is him saying he was going to go after Hawkeye next, so I shot him... I don't remember a whole lot after that."

He looked up at Breda and got a brief flash of something else. He saw the lieutenant clearly—standing out amidst the other, fuzzy memories—hovering over him, talking to him...

"_Come on, Colonel. Stay with us._"

Roy had never seen him look so terrified. Even then, lying in a pool of his own blood and just fighting to breathe through the agony in his torn body, Roy had almost felt bad for him. He'd looked absolutely sick, glancing between his bleeding superior and his bleeding best friend, his hands trembling as they held his crumpled uniform jacket to the gash in Roy's stomach.

Yes... Roy remembered that.

Breda coughed uncomfortably and looked away, making Roy realize that he'd been staring blearily at him while mulling over his violent thoughts. Clearly, Breda remembered it, too, and not too fondly. Though the terror in him had subsided, a lingering anxiety remained and a sense of misplacement, as if he wasn't sure what to do with himself. It was an odd thing to feel radiating from such a typically confident man.

"...Hey, Roy."

Roy looked over at Maes again and cursed inwardly, realizing that he'd spaced out again and missed what Maes had been saying.

"Sorry... what?"

"I asked if you wanted to stay here and watch while I go in and talk to Havoc. I'm taking you back to the hospital afterward, though."

"Actually, I'd like to talk to him myself," Roy replied, slowly pushing himself to his feet. The already-dim room abruptly decided to go pitch black and Roy's knees buckled, forcing him to quickly sit down again. Pain lanced through his gut, spreading through his innards to stab at the base of his spine and constrict his lungs. He gasped and hunched over, ears roaring.

Maes appeared at his side, gripping his shoulders hard.

"You okay?"

"Ugh... yeah," Roy replied, trying to blink the spots out of his eyes, "Just stood up too fast..."

Maes pursed his lips doubtfully before continuing. "I think it would be better if Havoc didn't see you, though. He thinks you're dead and I'd like him to keep thinking that for a while. He feels victorious, cocky... If we take that from him, I think he'll be even less inclined to talk."

Roy nodded, "You're right. Then I'll just stay here and watch."

Maes nodded in return but then paused and looked intently into Roy's eyes for a moment. "Wow," he remarked, "You are _really_ high, aren't you?"

"Mmm-hm."

Maes' mouth quirked in a worried smile and he patted Roy's arm affectionately before turning to the lieutenant.

"Lieutenant Breda, if you'd like to accompany me," he said, speaking with a soft quality that sounded almost apologetic, "I'm sure you have a few questions that you'd like to ask as well."

Breda straightened, saluting gratefully. "Thank you, sir."

"Fine. Now..." he turned to Ed and Al, pinning them with a feral gaze, "you two. You are going to stay here and keep an eye on the colonel. You brought him here, so he's _your_ responsibility."

"What?!" Ed whined, "I am _not_ going to babysit—"

"You will if you know what's good for you. I'm angry enough at you as it is, but if you let anything happen to him... Just take care of him, okay?"

Ed gave an irritated sigh and scratched his head, looking over at Roy with a disgruntled expression souring his young face.

"Don't worry, sir," Alphonse assured, "We'll look after him."

"Maes, I really don't need them to—"

"Yes you _do_," Maes said emphatically, rounding on him, "and you don't get any say in the matter, so shut up. Just behave, alright? Watch through the window and tell us if you notice anything. We'll be back soon."

Roy glowered at him, but knew that there was no point in any further protest and watched silently as Maes and Breda filed out of the room and reappeared a moment later in the interrogation cell. Havoc didn't even look up as they entered. He was still curled on the floor like a dead dog, completely motionless.

Edward roughly pulled a chair out from the table, the wooden legs scraping the floor loudly, and dropped himself into it. He propped his elbows up on the table and leaned his cheek on his fist sullenly.

"I better be getting paid for this crap," he griped.

Roy snorted at him, more amused than exasperated, and then focused himself on the window again, waiting for the interrogation to begin.


	5. Listen

((A/N: Sorry for the late update. Life is crazy and it won't leave me alone.))

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Havoc didn't move when they came into the room. He didn't flinch, didn't even look up. He just lay there, curled, his light grey prison clothes almost the same cool color as the floor beneath him.

"...Jean?" Heymans ventured, stepping over to him and crouching down. "Jean, it's me... Heymans."

"Heymans..." Jean rasped without looking at him. Then his mouth curved into a vague smile that somehow failed to warm his blank, bloodshot eyes. "Heymans _Breda_... You looked like you were about to piss yourself back there in the office. What, can't handle a little blood?"

Heymans' heart sank. He knew that Jean had been verbally aggressive like this since his arrest, but for some reason he was shocked by his friend's words. Maybe he'd thought that Jean would recognize him as a friend, drop the angry act, and decide to cooperate... After less than a minute in the interrogation room, though, it was clear that that was not going to happen. How naïve Heymans had been to even see that as a possibility. God, he was an idiot.

"The blood didn't bother me so much..." Heymans answered him with a sneer, trying to seem unfazed. Two could play at this game, he supposed. "I think it was the fact that you knifed an innocent man for no reason that made me sick."

"Innocent?" Jean laughed incredulously, his blue eyes finally darting over to acknowledge him. "You think Mustang is _innocent_? Oh-ho, he's about as innocent as I am, my friend."

"Uh-huh. 'He had it coming', right?" Hughes scoffed, coming over to them, "You've said it before. Get the fuck up."

Jean went still and silent and, for a moment, Heymans thought that he was going to ignore the order. But then his face twitched and he raised himself into a sitting position. With scarcely a wince, he got his injured legs under him and stood. Hughes took him roughly by the arm, jerking him over to the chair and practically throwing him down into it. The lieutenant colonel was clearly out of patience with him, and Mustang's surprising appearance had darkened his mood even further.

Now, Heymans knew that Hughes was not typically a violent man, and actually seemed to have an admirable sense of restraint... but he also knew that he was a fiercely _loyal_ man who would do anything to defend—or avenge—his loved ones. If Jean pushed him too hard right now, when he was already under the stress of having his half-dead best friend refusing medical care, things could get very ugly, indeed.

...Perhaps that was the very reason why Hughes had allowed Heymans in on this interrogation in the first place. Maybe he wanted someone to be able to intervene if he got a little too physical with his prisoner...

That thought was a little disturbing.

"Are you ready to cooperate?" Hughes asked, leaning against the table to tower over him, already seeking to intimidate.

Jean just smiled at him guilelessly, his eyes narrowing into slits in a way that reminded Heymans of a basking cat, biding his time beneath a bird's nest, just waiting for the opportune moment to come.

Heymans sighed and leaned against the wall.

He could already tell that this was going to take a while.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ed picked up one of the blank pieces of paper on the desk that Hughes had probably been using to take notes. He crumpled it into a ball and tossed it at Mustang. It hit him in the shoulder and bounced off lightly. The colonel opened his heavy eyes and looked at the crinkling wad of paper stupidly as it came to a halt on the tabletop.

"Hey, you're supposed to stay awake and watch what's going on," Ed chided him, pointing at the window and the three men beyond.

"I _am_ awake..." he grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"Uh-huh. And I'm the emperor of Xing."

"Brother, be nice..." Al said quietly so that Mustang wouldn't hear, "He's been through a lot, you know."

"Don't lecture me, this is your fault," whispered back scathingly.

"_My_ fault? How is this _my_ fault?" Al demanded.

"If you hadn't insisted on going to see Hawkeye and him at the hospital—"

"Oh, please. You were his human crutch all the way here and didn't complain once! It's not like _you_ put up much of a fight to keep him in the hospital!"

"Look whose talking! You're the one who practically _dressed_ him back at his apartment!"

"I got my pants on by myself, thank you," Mustang piped up drowsily, looking amused by their argument.

"You stay out of it!" Ed spat, stabbing a finger at him, "You're the cause of all this trouble!"

"Hm... Now maybe you know how I feel when you run around terrorizing the country..."

"Oh, shut up and pay attention to the interrogation..."

Mustang chuckled and turned to the window, groggily obedient. Ed glared at him for another moment, then followed his gaze.

Havoc was sitting at the table and Hughes was standing in front of him. The lieutenant colonel was speaking quickly, his eyes flashing, but they couldn't hear exactly what he was saying from the observation room. Whatever he was saying though, he certainly looked pissed. Ed had seen Hughes get irritated before, had even heard him yell, but he didn't think that he'd ever seen the man look so angry. He was livid, shouting, the enraged, muffled hum of his voice carrying through the wall. It was both surprising and strange to see him getting so intense. In fact, Ed noted, lieutenant Breda was keeping his eyes on Hughes rather than on the prisoner, as if he was half-afraid that Hughes would attack Havoc if he got any angrier.

Edward knew that Hughes and Mustang were close, but if this were any indication of _how_ close they were, they must be practically brothers. Hughes was nearly shaking with rage on behalf of his friend. Then again, if someone Ed trusted ever betrayed him by endangering Alphonse's life...

Well, blood would be spilt. That's for damn sure.

"At least it looks like he's talking, now..." Al said, watching as Havoc's lips moved in speech.

"I doubt he's saying anything relevant," Mustang replied quietly after a moment, "Frankly, I don't think he's ever going to."

"Why not?" Alphonse asked, ever the optimist.

"Well, he's clearly very good at lying... I mean, he's probably been deceiving me for years..." the colonel replied darkly, resting his lower lip against his steepled fingers, "He must have remarkable self-control. I doubt that we can trust anything he says."

"Of course you can't trust what he says!" Ed said, rolling his eyes, "He stabbed you! I wouldn't trust anyone who stabbed me, either. And what does it matter what he says anyway? We already know that he tried to kill you, what more do we really need to know? He's guilty. I say we just lock him up and be done with it."

Mustang looked over at him again. "That's rather cold of you, Fullmetal," he said, his words sounding more curious than reproachful.

"Hey, if he's betraying you then he's betraying me, too. If you died, being in the military would be a hell of a lot more difficult for me. I'm not done using you for my own goals, and anyone who gets in the way of that is an enemy, I don't care who they are."

The colonel made a soft, wondering sound before returning his eyes to the window and Ed felt an abrupt wave of shame. He wasn't really sure why he suddenly felt so bad, but he felt reprimanded by the gentle sound that Mustang had just made, though that had clearly not been the colonel's intent. Maybe he felt selfish for worrying about his own objectives in the military when his commander was sitting right in front of him, injured and in pain. Not once had he ever really thought of _Mustang's_ goals in all this, and how devastatingly they had just been jeopardized by Havoc's attack.

And then, Ed did have to admit—albeit silently—that he was shocked and saddened by what Havoc had done. He'd liked Havoc. He'd trusted him with his life and the life of his brother. To think that he was capable of stabbing the man that he'd been "supporting" for who knows how many years was chilling. He was a madman and a monster... and Ed had trusted him almost as much as he'd trusted Mustang. Perhaps they didn't always get along, but Ed would have never suspected any kind of betrayal from the tall, cheerful man. He had _trusted_ him, and Ed didn't trust many people.

And this was exactly why: because you never really know what's going on inside another person's head. Never. Everyone has ulterior motives. Everyone has their own goals and desires, often ones that they don't wish to tell aloud. And so, as a general rule, Edward questioned everyone and everything and never let anyone get too close. Mustang might like to believe that he had everyone around him pegged, but he could never be one hundred percent sure. If Havoc shoving a blade into his gut didn't prove _that_, then...

"This might sound like a stupid question..." Al said suddenly, interrupting Ed's train of thought, "but are we even completely sure that that's really Havoc?"

Mustang blinked and looked up at him slowly. "...What would make you think otherwise?"

"I dunno, he just..." he paused for a moment as if embarrassed, "he doesn't _feel_ right... He just doesn't feel like Lieutenant Havoc."

Mustang stared at him.

"I know it sounds insane..." Al stumbled, his armor seeming almost to flush under the colonel's blank gaze, "It was just a thought..."

"No, keep talking," Mustang urged, visibly struggling to focus, "What do you mean?"

"Well, he... I don't know. It's just a feeling. Forget I said anything. It's dumb."

"But I think I know what you're talking about," the man pressed, "He gave me a strange feeling in the office before he stabbed me, as if..." he stopped, then gave a little shrug, "I can't even explain it... but I only felt it when I met his eyes."

"_I_ don't feel anything," Ed mumbled, crossing his arms.

"Maybe we're just more sensitive to it than you are, Brother..." Al sighed, trying to placate him. Ed almost laughed aloud. Mustang? _Sensitive_? Ha.

"So what are you saying?" Edward asked, "You think that isn't Havoc? Who else could it be? It looks just like him!"

But then he stopped, eyes going wide. He turned and looked out the window, watching Hughes berate Havoc, a sharp tingle of anxiety making itself known in the pit of his stomach. "You don't think... that it could be _Envy_, do you...?"

Al shrugged, "I don't know. That was my first thought... But he wouldn't stand for having Hughes yelling at him like this..."

"True... And Envy would have escaped by now, or at least put up more of a fight... Unless he's planning something and is trying to throw us off the scent."

Ed bit his lip and shifted in his chair. Maybe Al was right. Maybe that handcuffed man over in the other room really _wasn't_ Jean Havoc. It certainly made more sense than trusted Havoc just suddenly deciding to go homicidal after so many years of apparent loyalty...

"Hey, Mustang, do you think that—" Ed began, but then, suddenly, the door at his back slammed open and cut him off.

A woman stood in the doorway, backlit into obscurity by the bright light out in the hallway, so that her features were completely effaced by shadow. The sudden brightness flowing into the room from around her silhouette hurt Ed's eyes and he had to blink them rapidly, trying to reacclimatize them to the light.

She strode forward, and revealed herself as Second Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye. And she looked _pissed_.

In a direct contrast to her obvious anger, Mustang started laughing to himself in an odd, vaguely hysterical way.

"I am in _soo_ much trouble..." he giggled, burying his face in his hands.

Ed and Al looked at each other, not sure whether they should be amused or terrified. And then, as Hawkeye opened her mouth to tell Mustang what an idiot he was, all Hell broke loose.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Maes was really starting to lose patience. It was getting to the point where he knew that he should just stop and leave the room—to give himself a moment to collect himself and breathe, or even perhaps to get someone else to come in and finish the questioning—but he held his ground. He would not let this... this _coward_ get under his skin.

He had almost been convinced by Breda to feel sorry for Havoc. Yes, there was something wrong with him... Yes, perhaps his current, sporadically psychotic state was a reaction to something that had happened to him while he was AWOL... But he was clearly sane enough to know how to deflect an interrogation and deeply frustrate his questioner with hardly any effort.

The brief sympathy that Maes had felt for him had all but evaporated, though his pity for Breda had increased tenfold. The man looked sick, listening to the horrible things coming from his best friend's mouth.

"—sick of Mustang's attitude. Just sick to death of it," Havoc was hissing, his eyes staring downward, intently, as if trying to read miniscule words written between the grains of wood on the table before him. His gaze was simultaneously distant and penetrating and he spoke rapidly, hardly even pausing for breath. "He never did understand that he was just as worthless as the rest of us, a wallowing rodent in the mud, just waiting to be claimed by Death or the highest bidder. Oh no, he thought he was above it. Clean. Pristine. Trying to take on an air of aristocracy while really he was just rotting in the mire with everyone else, a stinking corpse that just hasn't realized that it's dead yet. But he never fooled me. He was powerful, yes... and _oh_, could he make fireworks when he gathered the nerve—such beautiful combustion, like the sun and moon reaching simultaneous coitus, a cosmic orgasm of violence—but the fire in him died _long_ before I killed him. It was almost a mercy."

He just wouldn't stop talking. He'd remained silent for a long time, but now they couldn't get him to shut up. He just kept vomiting forth a surprisingly eloquent, almost morbidly poetic, string of reasons why he hated Roy Mustang. He was apparently very keen on thoroughly answering Maes' repeated question: "Why did you stab Colonel Mustang?", in spite of his disinclinations to answer it earlier. What had brought the change on, Maes wasn't sure.

"He was a coward and he could never really embrace the gifts given to him," Havoc ranted on, disgusted, "I admit that I admired those gifts at first, coveted them, but then I saw him for what he really was: pathetic. What a waste..."

"...Are you finished?" Maes drawled in mock-boredom when the lieutenant trailed off into silence.

"Are _you_?" he queried a little maniacally, then his body stiffened and swung to the side in his seat, wracked with another of his odd spasms. He gritted his teeth and jerkily forced himself to stay in the chair, hunching his shoulders and placing his quivering hands flat on the table, partially obscuring the nonsensical designs that he had carved into its surface earlier. "_Stop_," he commanded himself in a faint, almost alarmed-sounding whisper, "Just _stop_ this."

Maes waited wordlessly for him to regain control, used to the spectacle by now and refusing to react to it in any way. There was still the chance that he was faking the whole thing, trying to gain their sympathies or entice them into dropping their guard.

_That_ certainly wasn't going to happen, though.

Havoc took a breath and straightened himself up again, his face returning icily to cool expressionlessness. Maes waited another handful of seconds before speaking.

"So, you planned this out on your own," he surmised, arching a calm eyebrow, "Without any aid or encouragement from an outside source, right?"

"I work for myself and myself alone," was all that he replied, sounding insulted by the implication that he had been _hired_ to assassinate the colonel. "I forge my own path."

Maes smirked. That was the first semi-straight answer they'd gotten from him, and it hadn't taken any real coaxing. And they had just uncovered something even more valuable than a straight answer: the prisoner had just unwittingly divulged a weak spot. The irritation in the man's voice had been unmistakable when he'd insisted his independence. A good sign to be sure. That last spasm had left him a little breathless and seemed to have loosened his tongue, perhaps he was starting to get tired, and he was probably in pain from the healing bullet-wounds in his legs...

Well, _let_ him suffer.

Part of Maes—some suppressed, gentle part of Maes that usually ruled in the forefront of his personality—was horrified that he was finding deep, vengeful pleasure in another's pain, but he ignored it. If sadistic satisfaction was what kept him going through this case, then so be it.

"I don't know..." Maes sighed, deciding instantly to take advantage of Havoc's unknowing revelation, "You've never seemed to be much of an initiator to me. More like a dog on a leash, only doing his master's bidding. So come on; who's _really_ behind this?"

"I'm on my own," he insisted, his eyes sparking with a sudden warning that made Maes grin darkly, "I have no 'master'. I don't want or need to be led."

"I see..." Maes said at length, making his tone drip with disbelief and placation, like an adult pretending to agree with a child who is obviously wrong. Havoc bristled at his words, knowing that he was being both doubted and patronized. Where threats and mild violence had failed to reap any reaction from the would-be assassin, gentle skepticism was starting to chafe him.

What a strange thing, the human mind... to find physical injury preferable to a wounding of the pride.

"Why would I need someone to tell me to kill a man that I've hated on my own for such a long time?" Havoc asked, his eyelids lowering over the almost-glowing blue of his eyes into a forced expression of haughty indulgence, as if he thought Maes to be incredibly stupid, "I am more than capable of doing what I please, _whenever_ I desire to do it."

"And you've made that inescapably apparent, sitting here in an interrogation cell, a military prisoner..."

The corner of the lieutenant's mouth twitched. At first he seemed to be smirking, but then the wavering half-smile turned into a feral grimace and he loosed a dry, gagging sound. "Red..." he choked suddenly, jerking his face away from Maes, "Red..."

"Red?" Breda asked, speaking for the first time in several minutes.

Havoc moaned and closed his eyes tightly, lolling his head back against the chair. When his eyes finally opened again, they were watery and even more bloodshot than they had been before. The moisture in his eyes overspilled and trailed down his cheek slowly. When the warm tear reached his lips his tongue darted out, snakelike, and erased it quickly.

"I have no master," he said again, continuing their conversation as if it had never been interrupted. He sounded entirely calm, his tone and facial expression—or the lack thereof—entirely placid, belying the tear-track sheen on his cheeks.

"..So you've said," Maes rejoined at length, eyeing him.

"You don't believe me," he accused flatly.

"Aw, what gave it away?"

"You think you've won."

"That's because I _have_. You were caught red-handed. Don't tell me that you really think that you can get out of this..."

"I could get out of here if I wanted to. I could kill you effortlessly."

"I'd like to see you try it," Maes dared him, leaning forward against the table to loom over his seated form.

There was silence and stillness for one long, breathless moment. No one moved or even dared to breathe too loudly. Breda remained behind the prisoner, leaning against the wall, his eyes darting back and forth between his best friend and Maes.

Then Havoc's lips pulled back into a quiet smile. He chuckled, inclining his head so that the dark circles under his eyes were made even more profound by shadow; so dark they were, that his eye sockets seemed almost empty, his tight, tooth-filled smile adding to the skeletal effect. For just a split second, he looked like Death personified—a grinning skull-face, the Grim Reaper, coming to collect what is owed.

"As you wish," he said, lifting his shoulders in a cute, careless little shrug. He sighed gently, then slammed his hands down hard against the tabletop.

And almost immediately, the crude etchings that Havoc had carved into the wood began to glow.

"What--?" Maes began, but his incredulous words were abruptly cut off as the surface of the table bucked upward, twisting in on itself and creating a kind of splintery pinnacle.

The reshaped wood shot forward like an arrow, heading straight for Maes, its wickedly pointed tip aiming for his head. He didn't even have time to blink, let alone jump out of the way as the makeshift weapon screamed toward him. He closed his eyes tightly, flinching instinctively, waiting for the strike to come.

"NO!" Havoc shouted. His ear-rending shriek reverberated through the room, followed almost immediately by the dual cacophony of shattering glass and splintering wood.

Maes ventured to open his eyes again and took in the newly-blossomed chaos before him. Havoc was on the floor on his knees, his forehead pressed hard against the tiles and his hands clutching the sides of his head frantically. The ruined table-turned-spear littered the floor with dull shards, having apparently changed course at the last possible second to smash into the window into the observation room over Maes' left shoulder. Edward, Alphonse, Roy, and—surprisingly—Hawkeye were all staring out from between the few pieces of darkened glass still lodged in the window's frame, identical expressions of shock morphing their faces into something almost comical.

Maes might have laughed if his heart weren't pounding so hard.

"Is everyone okay?" Breda asked, the first to break from his surprise. Ed and Al both nodded, but Roy just continued to stare at Havoc, as if Breda hadn't spoken at all. Hawkeye's gaze was also watching Havoc, though her eyes held a malice that Roy's did not.

Havoc was still on the floor where he had apparently thrown himself, his back heaving as he whispered, voice cracking with anxiety. Over the roar of blood in his ears, Maes could make out a few words here and there:

"R-red... He... I can't... St-stop, please... _Red!_ Listen!" he rasped, but then his voice broke and he fell to just gasping wordlessly against the floor, his whole body quaking. He looked completely detached from the room and the people around him, so completely introverted that he didn't even know they were there.

"That was _alchemy_..." Roy said dazedly, his glassy eyes wide.

"Gee, you think?" Ed snapped, hopping through the broken window, carefully avoiding the broken glass.

"He carved the transmutation circles into the table hours ago..." Maes said, mentally kicking himself for being so blind, "I didn't even look at them."

God, how stupid he had been to not have at least _looked_ at the carvings! He had taken them to be nothing more than the pointless doodles of a bored madman and hadn't given them any thought at all. Havoc had probably known that the drawings would be overlooked and so had no qualms about carving them right in front of his interrogator's face. He really _could_ have killed them effortlessly... he could have stabbed Maes though the head. At least, he could have if he hadn't stopped himself.

"But Havoc can't _do_ alchemy!" Roy insisted.

"See, then maybe it really isn't him," Al said timidly.

"Wait, you don't think this is Havoc just because he can do alchemy?" Maes asked them, both incredulous and—for some reason—irritated.

"Well, it can't be Envy," Ed said to Alphonse, ignoring Maes as he crouched down amongst the remaining rubble of the table, running his fingers along the barely-discernable shapes of transmutation circles in the wood. "He can't do alchemy, either."

"Couldn't Havoc have possibly just taught himself alchemy without you knowing it?" Maes asked Roy.

"No. There's no way. I would have known. I _know_ him."

"So, you'll accept the surprise of him trying to kill you, but you refuse to believe that he could have taught himself alchemy behind your back?" he barked, frustrated and still full to the brim with the anxiety of unspent adrenaline.

"I... well..." Roy stumbled, then slouched back in his seat, closing his eyes. "Fuck, I don't even know, anymore. I have no idea. I can't think right now. Don't listen to me, I'm high."

Maes sighed loudly and lifted his glasses enough so that he could rub his eyes. "Fine, whatever," he said to Roy, "Let's just get this bastard back in his cell and get you back in the hospital. I've had enough of both of you today."

Roy looked as if here were about to protest, but Hawkeye put a hand on his shoulder and he quieted, frowning darkly.

"Come on, Havoc, let's go," Breda said as he stooped to pull the lieutenant up off the floor, his voice wavering very slightly. He slid his hands under the man's arms and hefted his limp body upward until Havoc obediently got his feet under him and stood on his own. Cuffed and silent, Havoc shuffled forward vacantly like a puppet on strings, going wherever Breda steered him.

As they passed the broken window, Havoc raised his head a little and looked beyond. Roy seemed to flinch slightly as their eyes met and his wan face paled further, as if making eye contact with Havoc made him physically ill. Havoc stopped in his tracks and stared at him, only now realizing who he was looking at.

"You..." he breathed, his voice soft and pained, sounding almost frightened. But then his face darkened, contorting his features into something undeniably evil and insane, a gruesome mask with bared teeth and huge, monstrous eyes. "_You!_" he said again, though this time the word was tainted with bloodlust and rage.

He lunged forward out of Breda's grip and lurched toward the window before anyone could stop him. He hit the window frame and, in his madness, tried to climb through it toward Roy, unheeding of the glass that sliced into his hands and arms. Hawkeye leapt in front of her commander with the intuition and agility of a tigress and pulled her gun on him, the barrel inches from his face.

Breda grabbed him again and jerked him back. The glass still stuck in the window stabbed into Havoc's arms as Breda yanked him violently backward, further tearing through the flesh of his arms and hands. Havoc didn't even seem to notice the wounds as he fought to get at Roy, howling murderously. Maes jumped forward and helped Breda force the bleeding, raging man down onto the floor. Maes pinned him down, pressing his knee down against the small of his back in a way that he hoped was just as painful as it was immobilizing.

"Try that again and I will kill you," he hissed to the man struggling beneath him.

"R-red..." was all that Havoc replied and then, to Maes' great surprise, he burst into tears. He sobbed hard in to the expanding stain of his own blood, shoulders heaving as if he was trying not to vomit. Blood trickled from his sliced arms, pooling into the cracks between the floor tiles in a matrix of red lines.

Breda clenched his jaw, looking down at the unbalanced thing that his best friend had become. "He's bleeding a lot," he said to Maes quietly, "The glass may have hit an artery in his arm. We should take him to the hospital with the colonel."

Maes looked at him for a moment, then nodded tightly. He was right. As much as Maes wanted this man to pay for what he had done, he wasn't cruel, and it was clear that he needed medical aid.

"Boys," he said, addressing Edward and Alphonse, "Go back to my office and tell Scieszka to call the medical team. Tell them to come armed and with restraints."

Ed nodded gravely, then turned to look at Al and, together, they exited their respective rooms. Maes heard two separate doors close as the Elric brothers met out in the hallway and then there was relative silence for a beat, other than the soft, strained sound of Havoc's weeping.

"That's not Havoc..." Roy said again, dejectedly. "It can't be."

Maes swallowed hard and didn't reply, wordlessly hoping—for his sake—that he was right.


	6. Bound

Roy was leaning his elbow against the car's armrest, cheek on hand, eyes closed, letting the wind flowing in through the open window comb his hair out of his face with cool, invisible fingers. The vibration of the engine was soothing, lulling him into a kind of half-doze against the black leather passenger's seat, the breeze caressing his brow like a gentle lover.

"How are you holding up, sir?"

Roy jumped, startled from his almost-asleep daze. He looked over at Hawkeye blearily as she turned another corner, winding their way through Central. It took him longer than usual to process what she'd asked, but when her words finally got through to him, he shrugged one shoulder and let his eyes fall shut again.

"I'm alright," he rasped, "Just a little tired."

That wasn't the complete truth and Hawkeye probably knew that, but she didn't say anything. Roy was more than just a little tired; he was completely exhausted and, frankly, he felt like he was going to throw up. He didn't know if it was from the morphine, from over-exerting himself earlier, or just a common symptom from having one's stomach torn open... but he felt sick. Oh, he did he feel _sick_. And, while he knew that it wasn't as bad now as it would be later, his wound was throbbing badly. He just hoped desperately that he could continue to keep himself from vomiting, because if he threw up now, he knew that the pain in his stomach would become absolutely excruciating. It hurt enough when he was just sitting still, he could scarcely imagine how bad it would get if his stomach clenched and tightened in a spasm of regurgitation.

Just thinking about it was a little frightening. Roy had a high pain tolerance, but that just sounded awful...

"...Are you sure that you'll be okay not going back to the hospital?" Hawkeye asked after a moment.

Roy sighed, tired of arguing about it. "It's fine. Now that I'm awake, they probably would have released me soon, anyway. Tonight or tomorrow morning, I'd imagine. All they'd want me to do is stay in bed and rest and I'd much rather do that at home instead of in a hospital. I just need to take it easy for a while."

Now it was Hawkeye's turn to sigh. "I know that you must be in pain... they can help you manage it better than you can on your own."

"Ngh. I don't like being on these drugs. I can't think clearly. I think I'd prefer the pain over not being able to think."

"You say that now, but just wait until it wears off..."

"It's fine, Lieutenant."

Hawkeye gave another, soft little sigh and went quiet. She was worried about him and that made him uncomfortable. He didn't like people worrying about him, especially not her. Or Maes. Or—he thought with another jolt of bewildered amusement—Fullmetal. He could handle the concerned glances from Alphonse, but it was just weird coming from Ed, the boy who always tried to pretend that he didn't care about anyone or anything outside of his brother and the Philosopher's Stone. Not that Roy hadn't realized long ago that Ed _did_ care for him—and all of his staff as well—but to see him actually struggling to hide it was jarring.

Then again, Edward was certainly just as shaken by what had happened—by what was still happening—as everyone else. He and Havoc hadn't exactly been the best of friends, but they'd chatted companionably and joked around in the office on many, many occasions. Havoc had even given him the affectionate, gently mocking nickname of "Chief"... For Ed to realize that this might have all been a charade to gain his confidence had to be upsetting, especially when the kid fought so desperately to keep himself unattached to those around him and, secretly, always failed.

Roy tried to push those sad, pitying thoughts of Edward out of his mind and shifted a little in the seat. His wound's constant ache intensified briefly into a white-hot explosion of agony as he moved, but then it subsided again into a warm throb. God damn it, it was like he couldn't even _move_ without hurting himself. It was so indescribably frustrating that he wanted to scream. He felt so confined, trapped within his own body. And who knew how long it was going to take him to heal...?

It had taken some convincing to get Maes and Hawkeye to let him just go home rather than returning to the hospital. But, really, what more could the doctors do for him other than make him stay in bed? Recuperating at home, he'd have more freedom and access to a telephone so that he could still help with the investigation circling Havoc and what he had done. There was clearly something going on beyond a simple assassination attempt. Something didn't feel right—even Alphonse thought so—and that was enough to keep Roy's mind from resting at ease.

Alphonse had given him hope that maybe that madman really wasn't Havoc, but Roy wasn't quite ready to invest himself entirely in that theory. He wanted to believe it... he really, _really_ did... but the strong sense of logic in him made him concede that it wasn't likely. Because, if that wasn't Havoc, then who the hell—or _what_ the hell—was he? Some random look-alike with a grudge? An alchemist who had found a way to transmute his own body into whatever or whomever he liked? Please. That was insane.

But still, there was something nagging at the back of his mind that this man was not Jean Havoc. Maybe it had something to do with that odd, lurching feeling that he got whenever he met the man's eyes. He remembered that feeling vividly in the office, and then had felt it again when Havoc had briefly met his eyes through the shattered window of the interrogation room. It was just a sense of wrongness and displacement... and madness... and strange, far-off sense of familiarity that Roy really just couldn't place.

Then again, maybe Havoc really had just gone crazy, finally breaking under the pressure of his job. Perhaps that look in his eye was nothing more than insanity and homicidal rage. It happened. Roy had seen it happen before: soldiers driven mad in the heat of battle, turning their weapons on friends or, in most cases, themselves. The bloody deserts of Ishbal had been littered with such soldiers during the rebellion. Two of them had even been State Alchemists; one had been Zolf Kimbley, the other had been Roy himself. Kimbley had taken the homicidal route and killed a handful of superior officers for no apparent reason, while Roy had shoved the gun between his own teeth, just wanting it all to end.

Roy couldn't deny though, that he _had_ considered murdering his commander at the time... The Iron Blood Alchemist had been a cruel man, and an even crueler military leader. Roy had actually planned out how he was going to do it, had made extensive notes on ways to burn the man alive in his tent as he slept... but he managed to talk himself out of it. He'd just had to remind himself that evil begets evil, and it was his duty to break the chain of bloodshed, not add another link.

But did that mean that Roy aroused such hatred in his men? Was he cruel to them? He'd honestly thought that they got on pretty well and were friendlier with each other than most superiors were with their subordinates... but perhaps he'd just been fooling himself. Perhaps he was still too hard on them. Perhaps they all hated him and secretly wanted him dead. Perhaps Hawkeye, sitting next to him silently, was really thinking about how much she despised him...

But no, that was ridiculous. He knew that wasn't anywhere near true. He was just tired, in pain, hazy-minded, and feeling sorry for himself. Maybe he should save such deep, draining thoughts for after he'd gotten some sleep. His mind would be clearer then, more able to think objectively...

"Colonel..." Hawkeye called, gently touching his arm, "Roy."

He opened his eyes again, realizing sluggishly that he'd dropped off. He couldn't have been asleep for long, but his eyes were sore and heavy as they looked up at his lieutenant to see her leaning close, her brow still slightly furrowed. No... there was no way that this woman hated him. She radiated warmth and kindness. She always did.

"We're here," she said simply when she saw that he was awake. She reached back to grab a briefcase from the back seat and got out of the car. The briefcase contained files and reports on both Havoc and the prison riot that he'd gone missing from. Roy fully intended to be useful in this investigation, his wounds be damned. There was nothing he hated more than feeling useless. He'd probably read through everything after he slept a bit, because he certainly wouldn't be able to process any of it as he was now.

Hawkeye opened the door for him and helped him to get out onto the sidewalk, and he leaned on her heavily, glad for her support. He looked up at the apartment building they had parked in front of sleepily but then paused, confused.

"...Lieutenant, I don't think I live here," he told her, eyeing the dun-colored structure that, while familiar-looking, was undoubtedly _not_ his apartment.

She smirked at him and draped his arm over her shoulder, steadying him as they started toward the building. "I know you don't; _I_ do."

Oh.

"You might have convinced us not to take you back to the hospital, sir, but that doesn't mean I'm going to leave you alone," she explained tolerantly. "You can sleep on the couch."

"Aw, you're not going to let me share a bed with you?" he teased as they approached a door, the bright brass numbers on it winking in the late afternoon light. She smiled again and unlocked it.

"Sorry. I have a policy against sleeping with men who haven't bathed in three days."

"Hey, it's not my fault. I've been unconscious!" he mock-pouted, not really insulted. "I will, however, allow you to give me a sponge bath if it will make you happy."

"Tempting, but I'll pass."

He gave a tired little laugh as she opened the door and ushered him inside.

Black Hayate greeted them at the door, tail wagging. Hawkeye shooed him out of their path with a soft command and led Roy over to the couch. He lowered himself onto it, his body rejoicing at its softness.

Oh, he was so _tired_...

He wondered if it would be rude of him if he just flopped over and fell asleep right now, then decided he didn't really care if it was rude and stretched out on the ivory-colored cushions, resting his head against the plush armrest. He tried to kick off his boots, failed, and then ardently decided that it would be easier if he just left them on. Hayate trotted over happily and curled up on the floor next to the couch, moving Roy to lower his hand and rest it on his warm, furry head as he closed his eyes.

Hawkeye set the briefcase on the desk in the corner and said something about going to grab him a blanket and pillow, but he wasn't really listening and replied with a half-hearted grunt.

He was asleep long before she came back.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Al frowned—more as a feeling than an actual facial expression—and turned away from the tiny, picture frame-shaped window that looked into the hospital room.

"He'll be secure here," Lieutenant Colonel Hughes was saying grimly, "They have him strapped to the bed and I'll have guards posted out here. His hands are bound, so I don't think he'll be able to use any alchemy, but I don't want to make the mistake of underestimating him again."

"Right," Breda agreed, his voice as dead as his eyes.

It had been hours since Havoc had been rushed into the hospital, bleeding and whispering threats to himself. It wasn't that he was so badly hurt that he needed hours-long surgery or anything—his wounds weren't really that bad, though he had needed close to thirty stitches to close all those deep cuts on his arms...one of his fingers was so badly slashed that Al had thought it would need to be amputated, but the doctors had managed to save it and it was currently cocooned in gauze.

No, Havoc was going to be fine... what had taken so long was all the security that Hughes was instating on this hospital ward.

It had taken a while, but Hughes had managed to secure Havoc a room in a mostly-empty wing of the hospital, in a corner of the psychiatric ward. It had been Breda's idea, most likely because he'd rather see his maddened friend encaged in a hospital than in a cold prison cell, but Hughes had agreed that it was a good plan. And so now here he was, strapped to a bed in a cream-colored room—though the walls looked almost yellow under the old gas lights overhead—still deeply under the incapacitation of the tranquilizers that the nurses had given him to keep him compliant while they worked on him. He hadn't yet fully awoken from his drug-induced slumber, but he was stirring a little and, occasionally, even opening his eyes for a few seconds.

Hughes looked at Breda, his expression housing frustration, anger, pity, and sadness all in that one glance. But then he softened and cleared his throat, "My men will take it from here. I'm going to finish up some paperwork, then I'm going to go home... and I highly recommend that the three of you do the same."

Al nodded silently and Ed did the same thing next to him. Breda, however, glanced back toward the door to Havoc's room and didn't give any sort of answer. Hughes' shoulders slumped a little at Breda's distracted air, mouth downturned with sympathy and, Alphonse thought, quiet guilt. Why he would feel guilty, Al didn't know... but perhaps he felt like he was abandoning Breda and completely turning his back on Havoc by going home. But Hughes had been working for hours, now. Way beyond a normal workday, and it was clear to see that he was both exhausted and too frustrated to think clearly anymore. Hawkeye had said that he'd been going since eight o'clock yesterday evening, and it was now fast approaching five P.M., meaning that the poor Lieutenant Colonel had been working for nearly twenty-one hours with only a few breaks in-between, trying to figure out what was wrong with Havoc.

He had no reason to feel guilty. If anything, he should be proud of his dedication... But, Al supposed, it must be hard to think about such things while looking at the pain in Breda's eyes, or the equal pain in his best friend's suffering body...

Feeling that it was necessary, Al reached out and gripped Hughes' arm lovingly, letting him know that it really was okay for him to leave and get some much-needed rest. The lieutenant colonel looked over at him and smiled wanly. _Am I so transparent?_ that smile seemed to ask, immediately understanding Al's tacit encouragement to go home. But then his face sobered and he gave the youngest Elric a clipped nod before patting Breda's shoulder and bidding them all a soft adieu.

And with that he took his leave, exiting down the narrow hallway, his military-shined boots clicking against the polished floor.

Al smiled to himself sadly, watching him go. He had been surprised when Hughes had allowed Mustang to go home instead of going back to the hospital, but perhaps that was just more of his fatigue shining through. Before she'd left with the colonel, however, Hawkeye had whispered something in Hughes' ear that made him smile, some of his tension easing. Al didn't know what she'd proposed, but it was clearly something that made him feel better, and Al loved her even more for that. It was hard to see all of these people—people who were some of the only adults that Edward and Al had ever had any prolonged contact with, and all of whom they felt a kind of affection for—in such obvious distress.

"I should probably go, too," Breda said quietly. He had been on the job for almost as long as Hughes, and was no doubt ready to go back to his dorm and sleep for a few hours.

"We can share a cab," Ed offered, surprising his brother with the compassion in his voice. Breda looked at him and smirked, touched and perhaps a little embarrassed to be receiving sympathy from _Edward Elric_ of all people.

"No, I'd rather walk, I think," he said at length, "Alone. But I appreciate it."

He flicked them a salute and Edward, in another surprising gesture, returned it without qualm. Breda blinked at him, then laughed quietly to himself and turned from them, shoving his hands into his pockets as he slouched in the direction that Hughes had gone.

Ed sighed and watched him go, looking a little disgruntled by his soft laughter.

"What are you thinking?" he asked abruptly when the man was out of earshot.

"...I don't know. I don't know what to think," Al responded.

"But you really think that isn't Havoc."

"Well..." Al began hesitantly, "well, I can't be sure... It's just a feeling. You don't feel it, so maybe I'm just imagining things... And now we know for sure that it isn't Envy, so who else could it be?"

"Mustang said that he felt it, too, though."

"Yeah, but he's... incapacitated. He could've been imaging it, too. He looked pretty spacey. Maybe we were both just thinking wishfully."

Ed looked up at him, his face deadly serious. "Stop doubting yourself," he said severely, "We've got enough of that around here right now. If you really think that man in there isn't Havoc, then I trust you."

"But I'm not completely _sure_ that it isn't Havoc, that's the thing," Al sighed, "He just _feels different_, that's all... He just feels like someone else."

"Like someone else?"

"_And_ Havoc."

"So, he feels like someone else _and_ Havoc?" Ed asked slowly, frowning, lowering his eyes in thought.

"See? It doesn't even make sense!" Al wailed, putting his huge hands to the sides of his head. Ed remained motionless for a moment but then he stiffened, his shoulders jerking back as if startled, as if the idea that had just struck him had been an actual, physical blow.

"No... No it _does_, Al," his brother breathed after a long, unsettled pause. He looked up at him again, eyes widened with the sudden glow of understanding. "It _does_ make sense! It makes _perfect_ sense!"

And without any further explanation, he turned and bolted down the hallway.

"Brother!" Al called, stumbling after him, "_What_ makes sense, where are you going?"

"He's an alchemist!" Ed yelled over his shoulder as he screeched around a corner, arms flailing as his boots slid on the buffed marble.

"I _know_ that!"

"I have to call Mustang!"

"He knows that, too!" Al told him exasperatedly as they came to a halt in front of the ward's payphone, "What are you thinking?"

Ed quickly fished in his pocket for a coin and shoved it into the designated slot in the machine. "I think we've figured it out," he panted, more from dark excitement than from running, "I think I know what's going on. Al, you're a genius!"

"...Thanks, I guess," Al mused, nonplussed and completely lost as Ed dialed the number. He paused as the phone rang on the line, then, "Fuery! Quick, what's Mustang's home number? ...What? Okay, fine, what's _her_ number, then...?"

Al stood back and tried to be patient, crossing his arms over his chest as he waited for his brother to explain what the heck was going on inside his head.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Riza Hawkeye turned another page in her book, having not really read it, or the ten pages preceding it. She liked the book well enough, but she was having trouble focusing on it, as he was irresistibly distracted by each and every little sound that drifted into her bedroom from the front room.

Mustang had slept quietly for the first few hours, so deeply that he didn't even notice when she took his boots off of him and tossed a blanket onto his slumbering form. Now, though, he was stirring. At first, it had just been the sounds of him moving around on the couch, a soft, pained groan escaping from him every few minutes. It took all of her willpower not to go out there and make sure that he was all right, but she knew that he didn't appreciate her worry and to check on him every time he made a sound would just make him uncomfortable.

And so, she just sat there and listened, keeping her ear tuned to every little noise that eeked through the thin walls of her apartment in case he should call for her, or accidentally roll off of the couch.

Neither of those sounds reached her, though—her name softly called nor the frightening thud of his injured body hitting the floor. What sounds she did hear were mostly the rusting of fabric as he shifted on the couch, Hayate's claws clicking on the hardwood beneath his feet, and the more distant sound of the occasional car driving by her apartment into the darkening evening.

But then she heard Hayate whine gently, followed by a sharp curse from Mustang, and she decided to risk his irritation. She pushed herself up from where she had been sitting in bed and crept over to the door, peeking out into the front room.

Mustang was standing unsteadily, shuffling toward her desk in the corner. He took another step, stumbled, and nearly fell, but managed to catch himself on the desk's chair. He closed his eyes tightly and put his hand over his mouth, muffling the tiny cry that forced itself from his vocal chords. She moved forward to help him, but then held back and bit her lower lip. He took a deep breath, then another, then finally gathered the courage to pull the chair out and carefully seat himself in it. Once settled, he wrapped his arms around his middle and doubled over, resting his head on the desk, panting.

The morphine had, apparently, worn off.

Unable to just stand back and watch him suffer any longer, she approached him and rested a comforting hand on his trembling back.

"Is it bad?" she asked quietly.

"What the h-hell do you _think_?" he spat, his voice tight with pain.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"...No. Just... No," he answered after a moment, his tone softly apologetic. He hesitated for a moment, then put his hands on the desk and forced himself to sit upright, jaw clenching, "I just need to keep myself distracted with something... I should go through these files..."

He gestured at the briefcase and Riza opened it for him, pulling out the files he spoke of. She knew he wasn't going to be able to focus on them properly at the moment—though she could plainly see that he really _was_ more focused now that he had been under the influence of painkillers, pain or no pain—but she supposed that arguing with him would just make it worse, especially when all he wanted to do was distract his mind from his torn body.

"Would you like me to make tea?"

He paused before answering, thinking. "No... I'm a little afraid to risk anything more substantial than water."

"Water, then?"

He nodded slowly, not looking at her, and started trying to read the first file.

She ran her hand across his back for a moment, then moved over to her apartment's tiny kitchen and went about getting him a glass of water. She watched him over her shoulder, her heart aching with sympathy. He looked simply awful. His lips were pale and cracking, too dry from not having enough fluids. His cheeks were wan and clammy, a cold sweat prickling at his temples and making his uncombed hair cling to his slightly furrowed brow. His eyes were too bright, watering with the pain that he was trying to conceal from her, and his heavy lids were darkened to a dull red, the color of uncooked meat.

He looked worse now than he had when he'd first awoken, and the pain he must be feeling had to be nearly unbearable. She wanted to try and talk him into going back to the hospital, but she knew better. He would probably just get angry, and she knew that it would be better for him if he just stayed calm and rested. Still, she wished that she could do _something_ to alleviate his pain...

She shook her head and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, erasing all worry from her face as she walked back to her superior, water glass in hand. She handed the water to him and he thanked her quietly, pressing the cool glass to his lips. He took a small, experimental sip, paused as if to see if it was going to make him ill, then ventured to take another, bigger mouthful. He had to be ravenously thirsty—considering that he hadn't swallowed anything since that tiny sip of water back at the hospital, and then had consumed nothing at all for three days before that—but as much as he might want to gulp the water down, he was wisely wary of drinking too much too fast. That would certainly do him more harm than good, and he probably couldn't stand enduring much more harm.

His hand shook slightly as he lowered the glass, but he managed to keep himself from spilling it as he put it down on the desk.

"I don't really have much in the way of pain-relievers..." Riza began apologetically, standing behind him and putting her hands on each of his shoulders, pressing her thumbs into his back in soothing circles, "I have aspirin, but I don't know how much good that will do..."

He sighed, his shoulders deflating beneath her hands, though the muscles in his neck and back remained tight with discomfort. "I'm just trying to ignore it. If I just don't think about it, I'll be fine."

That was an outright lie, but Riza held her peace. Roy Mustang hated feeling weak and hated even more when he knew that other people could see it. It was something that really bothered him, almost to the point of being a phobia, and she respected that and tried her best to ignore his frailties when they made themselves known... but when his health was on the line, it was harder to turn a blind eye and pretend that she didn't see his suffering.

She would try, though, for his sake, to indulge his pride, and just silently continued rubbing his back, hoping that it might give him some comfort.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Oh, it was bad.

It was really, really bad. Worse than he'd anticipated. Worse than any physical pain that he'd ever felt in his life. At least when he'd first been stabbed, he'd had the dulling effects of adrenaline to alleviate some of the pain, and then afterward he'd had morphine. Now, though, there was no barrier—narcotic or otherwise—between him and his pain... and it was _bad_.

He could scarcely even breathe past it. Each inhalation felt like it was putting pressure on the wound, his lungs pushing against it, shifting it as they expanded. The pain had awoken him from his nap on the couch, radiating outward from the actual wound like a ripple in a pond. He'd tried to get back to sleep, still in the sick clutches of exhaustion, but the throbbing had been too intense for him to lie still and he finally just had to get up.

He was up now, trying to distract himself, sitting restlessly at Hawkeye's cedar desk, a stack of files in front of him. His body was in distress, his abdomen using the sensation of pain to alert his brain that _something was wrong_. The thing was, everything had already been done to fix the problem. He'd had the surgery, he'd rested for days on end... All he needed now was time to heal. Roy wished with bitter humor that his brain could reply to his injured abdomen and tell it to stop bitching, that everything was under control.

In spite of his wishes, however, the wound kept complaining.

Roy's blood was roaring in his ears so loudly that he could scarcely hear Hawkeye's gentle voice as she spoke to him, but still her presence was soothing. She stood behind him as he tried—in vain—to read the files, her cool hands ghosting up and down his back in an almost maternal way.

He half-wanted to try and go back to sleep, and he probably could have, just sitting there with Hawkeye rubbing his back, but then the phone on the edge of the desk rang and her magical hands disappeared to retrieve it. Roy groaned quietly at the loss and one of the hands reappeared again, the fingers digging gently into his stiff shoulder. Oh, she was the best lieutenant _ever_...

The ringing stopped and Hawkeye murmured the customary greeting into the receiver. There was a pause as she listened to the caller, then she blinked as if surprised.

"Sir, it's for you," she said, holding the mouthpiece to her breast.

"If it's Maes, tell him I'm _fine_..." he rasped.

"It's Fullmetal, sir."

Roy gave her a questioning look and she shrugged, just as bewildered as he was. _Surely _the boy wasn't calling to check up on him... was he? That would be odd, to say the least...

Roy took the phone hesitantly and pressed it to his ear. "This had better be important, Edward," he groused, "I'm trying to work."

"_Well, I see that the drugs wore off..._" Ed replied, bitterly, "_You should become an addict, you're much friendlier when you're spaced-out._"

Roy scrubbed his face with one hand, not wanting to think about his brief adventure with Ed and Al while under the pull of such heavy medicine. Ed was never going to let him live that down...

"Get to the point, Fullmetal. What do you want?"

"_Al and_ _I think we know what's wrong with Havoc."_

"..._We do?"_ Al's voice queried distantly in the background as Roy straightened in surprise, his pain forgotten for just a brief instant in a burst of hope. Ed could be a real bastard sometimes, but he wasn't a liar. He wouldn't make this up.

"Well?" Roy asked, taking another sip of water to wet his suddenly dry mouth, "Go on, tell me."

"_He's soul-bound. Like Al_."

The colonel paused and digested that, conceded that that didn't make sense to him, and confessed, "I don't think I understand..."

"_Um... lemme think of how to explain it..._" Ed said pensively, making no attempt to chide his boss' incomprehension of something that probably seemed obvious to the young prodigy, and Roy silently thanked him for that. "_Okay, so you know how Al's body is a suit of armor, right?_"

"Of course."

"_And I attached his soul to it with alchemy, right?"_

"With you so far."

"_Well, I think that some alchemist... some criminal alchemist from the prison riot... must have captured Havoc somehow and transferred his own soul into Havoc's body_."

Roy thought for a moment, trying to wrap his mind around it. It didn't sit well.

"I don't know, Ed... that seems a little far-fetched," he said finally, regretfully. "It just doesn't sound feasible. If someone else's soul were in Havoc's body, that person would have had to be a master at alchemy. Soul-binding isn't exactly common knowledge. Besides, how would he have been able to remove Havoc's soul without killing his body? That man isn't just a walking corpse with a foreign consciousness controlling it... he's a living, breathing person."

"_But that's the thing, Mustang... Havoc is still in there, too. He has to be. That's why he keeps freaking out, he's trying to regain control of his body_."

"Is... is that even possible?" Roy asked doubtfully, "For two souls to inhabit one vessel?"

"_I don't know... but can't you see? It fits, Mustang. It all makes sense! This has to be the answer._"

"It's a theory, not an answer... but it's a good theory," Roy half-agreed, still wary of putting too much faith in this mind-blowing scenario.

"_But it even explains that weird feeling that you and Al get from him!_" Ed insisted, determined to convince Roy of the validity of his findings.

"How so?"

"_Well, Al says that he feels Havoc and 'someone else' coming from him... and you said that he also made you feel strange when you made eye contact. Could that feeling... just _maybe_... come from the fact you were really looking at two people?_"

Roy's stomach lurched at those words and he nearly dropped the phone.

A sick, horrified gasp escaped from him as he stared, unseeing, at the cluttered desk front of him. Slowly, he realized that the skewed, disturbing feeling that washed over him when he met Havoc's gaze was because more than one person was staring back at him from behind those hauntingly blue eyes. Ed was right.

"...My god..." he whispered, terrified on behalf of his friend, unable to even fathom how frightening it must be for him to fight for dominance in his own body... against some unseen force that manipulated his hand into plunging a knife into his commanding officer and loyal friend.

"_Now, do you see_?" Ed asked quietly, his low voice seeming to understand Roy's alarmed grief.

"Yes. Yes, I see... and you're right. How could I have not realized...?"

"_I'm sure a part of you did know, but you've been... well, you haven't had much opportunity to think clearly over the past few days_..."

"I have to call Hughes and tell him."

"_He just left here a little while ago, so I doubt he's home yet_," Ed told him.

Roy sighed in frustration. This was big. This was really big and it needed to be fixed. Now. Havoc was _suffering_, and he was probably scared out of his mind...

"_Look, I'll take care of it_," Ed said, probably sensing Roy's mounting unease, "_I'll call him in a few minutes and tell him what's up, okay? You just focus on resting right now. We'll probably need your help figuring this out tomorrow, and I don't want you to be grouchy, so get some sleep._"

For a moment, Roy didn't know what to say. "I... I can't thank you enough for this, Edward... You and Al both," he rasped finally, truly grateful for the boys' voluntary involvement in these horrible dealings. God, without them, who knew how long it would have taken Roy to reach this conclusion?

There was silence on the line for several beats, then, "_Eh, it was nothing. It just came to us. Al and I are geniuses, remember? We are indescribably awesome_," he scoffed, clearly trying to shrug off Roy's heartfelt words. Roy smiled to himself and shook his head, having forgotten how much gratitude tended to embarrass Edward. "_Just meet us back at the hospital tomorrow morning and we'll figure everything out—got it, old man?"_

"Yes, sir," Roy mocked, "I'll see you at eight."

"_At eight_."

Ed hung up and Roy handed the phone back to Hawkeye.

"Good news?" she asked.

"Perhaps not 'good', but news just the same..." he answered, leaning forward on the desk and pillowing his head in his arms. "I need to give that kid a raise..."

Hawkeye smiled and, with a nod of encouragement from Roy, started rubbing his back again.

"_Damn_, I love my staff..." he murmured to her, closing his eyes.

She laughed quietly and allowed him to drift off again.


	7. Slipstream

Maes sat in the chair beside the hospital bed, watching his prisoner writhe against the white sheets. He had been in this room, alone with Havoc, for close to an hour... and every second had been educational.

"Hah... He won't... Just... Ngh... I can't..." Havoc panted, trying to focus his bleary eyes on Maes, "I'm sorry... sorry..."

"It's okay," Maes told him quietly, "Try again."

Havoc nodded and opened his mouth to try and speak again, but all that came from him was a frustrated sob. Then he wrenched his face away from Maes and hissed, "Shut _up_, damn you!" to himself in a harsh, unfamiliar voice.

Maes wouldn't have believed it if he weren't seeing for himself. Truthfully, he hadn't really believed a word of what Ed had told him last night. Havoc, an innocent man, was possessed by the soul of a criminal? Come on, that was just so _unbelievable_. Not to say that Maes hadn't seen a lot of unbelievable things in his line of work, but _this_... And so he had come in early this morning, long before everyone else was scheduled to arrive, to make his own assessment.

And, almost immediately, he began to doubt himself.

As he watched the man before him, it was becoming more and more clear that Edward was telling the truth. Now that he recognized what was going on, Havoc's "spasms" made sense. They weren't spasms at all... it was just Havoc trying to communicate, to fight off the person who had trapped him within his own body. Maes had thought that the increase in spasms had meant that Havoc's psychosis was getting worse, but in retrospect, it just meant that Havoc was breaking through more frequently. The alchemist who had entrapped him must be losing his grip somehow, allowing Havoc brief moments of control.

Reflecting on his behavior over the past few days, Maes had first thought that Havoc was getting stronger... but, no... That didn't seem to be the case. Havoc appeared to be in a perpetual state of exhaustion—unable to even speak in complete sentences when he could say anything at all—and in constant pain. No, Maes didn't think that Havoc was gaining strength... he was almost sure that this parasitic alchemist was just weakening, losing his grip on his host.

While this was probably a good thing, it appeared that his grip wasn't the only thing that was weakening. Havoc—or, his body at least—was sick. The bullet-holes he'd endured had taken a toll on his health, and the added blood loss from his encounter with broken glass yesterday had made it even worse, but there was also something going on beyond that.

He had a fever. Not a bad one, really, but an unexplained one. The doctors noticed it the day he stabbed Roy. The fever had broken by the time he was released into Maes' custody, but now it was flaring up again, slightly higher than it had been before. His wounds were not infected and his doctors puzzled over his raised temperature, unable to find a cause. If anything, his temperature could possibly be a little lower because of the blood loss, but the fever was a mystery...

Oh well. Just one of the many. many questions that Maes hoped to answer soon.

"Come on, Havoc," Maes encouraged again, "I need your help. Who is doing this to you?"

"R-red..."

"Red. You keep saying that..." Maes sighed, rubbing his temples. In the time he'd been in this room, that was Havoc's clearest and most-repeated word. "Is that his name?"

"No... And not 'red'..."

"...Wait, _not_ red?"

"No! _Red_, but... s-something... something else... Different word... I..."

He cut off again in a long, desperate whine—knowing that he wasn't making sense, but unable to clarify.

"I'm sorry, Jean..." Maes said sincerely, "But I don't understand what you're trying to say."

Havoc exhaled sharply and closed his eyes, visibly exhausted by his fight to get even those few words out and disheartened that, in spite of his best efforts, he hadn't been understood.

It had taken a long time to hear it all, but since he'd come in this morning Maes had learned many things from Havoc. Firstly, the lieutenant had confirmed—through a series of yes-and-no questions—that he was, indeed, being controlled by an alchemist. Secondly, he'd informed Maes that the alchemist possessing him was male and had been an inmate of the prison when it rioted. Beyond that, though, he hadn't been able to vocalize much that made any sense to Maes.

Havoc's face tensed abruptly for a moment as if he was in pain, but then his brow smoothed and his jaw relaxed as he lost his hard-won control. His eyes opened again, but Maes immediately realized that it wasn't Havoc looking at him anymore and he shuddered. Now that he knew that it was happening, Maes couldn't help but notice the shift when control switched from one soul to another. The figure before him could close his eyes as one person, then open again as someone else entirely... and damn, was it creepy.

"And do _you_ have anything to say?" Maes sighed, sitting back in the chair and crossing his legs, trying so seem as if it didn't bother him.

"Not at the moment, no."

Maes folded his arms over his chest. "Tell me who you are."

"Oh, _come_ now..." Not-Havoc admonished, "I'm going through all this trouble to keep _him_ from telling you who I am, so what makes you think I'd just let the cat out of the bag? Honestly, you didn't even say 'please'."

The lieutenant colonel worked his jaw, willing himself to bite back a retort.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked instead.

"I wanted to kill Mustang," the man answered simply, unabashed, "I thought that was obvious."

"Not to mention, you wanted out of prison, right?"

Not-Havoc's eyes flickered with irritation. He was clearly not happy that he hadn't been able to prevent Havoc from spilling those few tidbits of information that he had. This asshole's upper hand was slipping, and he knew it.

"What did Mustang do to you to make you want to kill him?" Maes asked when the alchemist stayed silent.

"Oh... You must think you're clever. See, if I tell you that, then you'll figure out how I know your precious colonel, and then you'll figure out who I am. You have to try better than that."

"Why bother hiding your identity? You've already lost. What possible advantage could you have, keeping your name to yourself?"

"We're done talking," he snapped, closing his eyes again dismissively.

Maes consulted his watch. Five 'til eight. Everyone else would probably be here soon. "Yes, I suppose we are," he agreed, "For now."

Not-Havoc smirked without looking at him, face placid with confidence, as Maes got to his feet. His calm was infuriating, but Maes felt strongly that is wouldn't last for long. Havoc was fighting hard within him and, though Havoc was weak and tired, it wasn't hard to see that this criminal was starting to tire as well.

Maes got to his feet, hesitated for a moment, then put his hand on Havoc's shoulder. "Hang in there, Lieutenant."

"_Sir_", he replied, so quietly that Maes wasn't even completely sure that he'd heard anything at all.

Maes squeezed his shoulder, then turned and exited the room, locking it behind him with the key that the hospital had given him. Only he and Havoc's doctor carried the key to this door, and Maes had given the hospital staff strict orders to keep it locked at all times. He had also wanted a guard to stand watch, but the hospital administration eventually convinced him that their own on-premises security would be sufficient for his needs, and provided him with the ability to call upon them if he ever had the need.

Whatever the case, Havoc wasn't going anywhere.

Maes heard two distant voices conferring quietly and looked up. Lieutenant Hawkeye and Roy were heading toward him, their arms entwined as she supported his slow, careful steps.

"Hey..." Maes said, quickly moving over to them, "How're you doing?"

"I've b-been better, Maes," he responded weakly, gasping against Hawkeye's shoulder.

"Come on, sir... You'll feel better once you sit down..." Hawkeye said, tightening her grip on him and ushering him forward. He gave a tiny nod of concurrence and Maes rushed forward to open the door to the private visitation room that they had reserved for the meeting.

Hawkeye helped him lower himself into the first chair they came to and Roy sat back with a tight grimace, closing his eyes and holding his breath as he settled.

"No morphine today, huh, buddy?" Maes asked wryly, half-scolding him. It hurt to see Roy in such obvious pain, but it was his own damn fault for not wanting to be re-admitted to the hospital. Sure, he'd come for the meeting, but Maes knew that they weren't going to be able to make him stay as a patient, no matter what they said or how much pain he was in... but that didn't mean that Maes would stop trying.

"Oh, go to hell," he rasped back, not opening his eyes, "You're not helping."

"I know... but we told you so," Maes sighed taking the chair next to him, "You don't _need_ to be in this much pain... If you let us admit you--"

"Just stop talking."

Maes smirked darkly, sympathetic, but wanting to seem stern. He turned to Hawkeye. "Did you bring back the prison reports?"

"Yes, sir," she said, handing him the briefcase, "The colonel and I went through most of it, but nothing really jumped out at us."

"I see," Maes intoned, wondering how much of the information Roy had actually processed. Probably not much, given his condition.

"Would you like me to get you some water, sir?" Hawkeye asked Roy, looking down at him with pity.

"Please," he answered.

She looked over at Maes with a helpless expression as if to say, _what more can I do for him?_ and left the room. Maes watched her go, feeling sorry for her. It was a very difficult thing to take care of Roy Mustang, especially when he didn't want to be taken care of... Honestly, she had earned more sympathy from Maes than Roy had.

He shook his head and opened the briefcase. At least now they had a starting point. They knew that the perpetrator was male, an alchemist, and had been imprisoned in the Southern Penitentiary until all too recently. That narrowed it down a little, at least. Imprisoned alchemists are strictly categorized and have to be held with more security than a normal inmate, so their files are clearly flagged with warnings of their powers. Now all Maes had to do was separate the alchemists from the non-alchemists and go through them, scrutinizing each one until he figured out who the culprit was. If he had to, he'd hold each and every mug-shot up in front of Havoc's face and wait for him to react to one of them. Regardless, Maes felt very close to finding out who this bastard was.

"Where's Fullmetal?" Roy asked, his voice so pitifully hoarse that it was painful to listen to.

"Not here yet. Relax for a bit. You know he's always late..." Maes reminded him. Truth be told, Roy was probably a little glad that Ed hadn't arrived yet. It gave him time to compose himself after such an obviously taxing trip from Hawkeye's apartment. The poor man looked half-dead, and certainly felt even worse.

Maes turned back to the records in front of him, trying—for what seemed like the hundredth time since Roy had gotten hurt—to swallow back his worry. He flipped through the prison record with a wistful kind of aimlessness, glossing over pages of unflattering mug-shots and glancing at each prisoner's information.

This one, Mark Cross—five-foot eight, blond hair, brown eyes, two hundred pounds—was arrested for burglary and assault. Intermediate alchemist.

That one, George Salgot—six-foot two; black hair; green eyes; one hundred eight pounds—taken in for attempted murder. Novice alchemist.

His mind wandered a little as he skimmed, revisiting Havoc's broken words. What the hell did "red" mean? He said that it wasn't a name... but, then again, he'd also said "not red", contradicting himself between one utterance and the next. It was clearly important... but what did it _mean_? What could be red, but "something else", as Havoc had put it?

Maes flipped to another record. Alexander Fringe: five-foot ten; brown eyes, red hair...

Hm. Could Havoc be describing the person's hair color? Was he perhaps a redhead...? That made sense, since a redhead's hair isn't actually red, but a rusty orange color... thus "red" but also "something else".

Maes turned to Roy to ask him what he thought, but stopped short of actually saying anything. Roy was leaning on the table in front of them with his head in his hands, his back rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths. Maybe Maes shouldn't bother him just now, and give him these few minutes before Ed and Al arrived to rest himself. And so, grimly, he turned back to the records again without speaking.

Joseph Scarlet: five-foot five; brown hair; blue eyes...

Wait.

_Scarlet._

"Scarlet" was a synonym for "red". Perhaps that was what Havoc meant by saying that it was something else... and hadn't he said that he was trying to relate a "different word", but hadn't been able to voice it? Maybe that's what he meant: he'd simply been trying to convey a synonym for "red", but the person possessing him wasn't letting him.

But... oh. Havoc had specifically said that it _wasn't_ a name. And besides—Maes realized as he read over the record—Joe Scarlet wasn't even an alchemist.

God_damn_ it.

Okay... well, at least now he knew that he wasn't looking for something red, but a synonym of the word... But, hell, there were several different words for red... There was "scarlet" of course... and "ruby", and "carmine", and "burgundy"... not to mention "cherry", "vermilion", "claret", and dozens of even more specific shades with names of their own. Any one of those could be the answer and Maes had no idea how to decide which one was the clue that Havoc had been so desperately trying to give him.

Frustrated, he flipped to another record so forcefully that it ripped a corner of the page.

And then his heart did a giddy little somersault, knocked senseless by what he saw on the page.

Oh...

Oh, Maes was going to _kill_ him...

"Maes?"

"What?" Maes squeaked, slamming the file shut quickly and straightening, like a kid caught with a dirty magazine. Roy was looking at him critically, one tired eyebrow raised over his bloodshot eyes.

"You look ill," Roy informed him, watching.

"I... I just need some air..." Maes stammered, stumbling to his feet. "I'll be back in a moment..."

"...Take your time."

Maes scarcely heard him, already heading out the door, and nearly plowed into Ed and Alphonse as he rushed out into the hallway, the offending record clutched tightly in his hand.

"Whoa, where's the fire?" Ed snarked, jumping out of his way.

"Just go in there and keep Mustang busy, okay?" Maes ordered as he brushed past them, "I have to check on something."

"Check on what?"

"It doesn't matter, Ed. Just go."

He heard Ed ask another question behind him, but he ignored it, storming down the hallway with the beginnings of volatile rage crawling under his flesh. He shoved his key in to the door to Havoc's room, unlocked it, and flung the door open so hard that it slammed against the wall.

"Havoc!" he called, moving to stand over him, "Havoc, can you hear me?"

After a moment, Havoc's watery eyes looked up. "...Sir," he whispered.

Maes brandished the record in front of him, holding it so that the mug-shot was clearly seen. The photo was of a man around Maes' own age, with long, lank black hair that trailed in front of his eyes in greasy tendrils. His mouth was wide, one corner curling upward mockingly, as if being arrested were some kind of personal amusement for him.

"This is what you meant, isn't it?" Maes demanded, "When you kept saying 'red'? Not "red", but "Crimson"!"

"H-him... _Yes_...!" Havoc forced out with a shaky, triumphant smile, "C-Crimson... Alchemist!"

Havoc's head snapped back and he—not Havoc, but the beast within him—roared in impotent fury. He had been discovered. It really was him.

Zolf J. Kimbley.

"I'll... I-I'll kill you... I'll k-kill _all_ of you!" he shrieked, though the intimidating power of his voice was diminished somewhat by the unmistakable undercurrent of Havoc's laughter warping his words. But then Havoc's body went rigid and his eyes emptied, both presences having retreated from the forefront, no doubt to do battle elsewhere. He relaxed and closed his eyes.

Maes just stood there for a moment, trying to calm his racing heart. Of all the alchemists it could have been, it just _had_ to be Kimbley, didn't it? As if Maes hadn't hated the man enough before. And... God... when Roy found out... He was going to flip his lid.

"...Hughes...? Sir?"

Maes whipped around. Edward was standing in the doorway that, in his fervor, Maes had forgotten to close. Ed's eyes were wide, looking at the file in Maes' shaking hand.

"I just... I needed to ask Havoc something..." he stammered, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable, ducking a little under the raw, animal rage that was thrumming in Maes' breast.

Maes looked back at Havoc's unconscious form. "...You can't tell Roy about this," he whispered to Ed.

"...Why not? Shouldn't he know who stabbed him...?" Ed asked tentatively, "Was this Crimson guy a State Alchemist...?"

"It's an order, Fullmetal. Do _not_ say anything to anyone."

Ed bit his lip, but then nodded, "Yes, sir."

"Good..." Maes said, valiantly trying to shake off the sick anger churning in his stomach. Roy would pick up on it immediately if he didn't get it under control before going back to him, and Roy had enough on his mind without adding this juicy tidbit. "Now let's see if we can get Havoc to answer any more questions today..."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Ooh, Kimbley was maaad..._

_Jean cursed and dropped back down into the trench, one hand keeping his combat helmet firmly crammed down onto his head. He wasn't quite fast enough. The shockwave from the explosion caught him before he could hunker down into safety and threw him hard against the trench's opposite wall. His lower back slammed against the slick, muddy surface so hard that he should have been seriously injured. Instead, though, he just slid to the mucky floor of the foxhole with an undignified grunt, dirty and uncomfortable, but no worse for wear. He rolled back up onto his knees and peeked over the edge of the trench._

"_Ha, ha, _ha_!" he crowed. "Now what are you going to do? They know who you are! No more hiding, asshole!"_

_He yelped and ducked down quickly as another explosion rumbled across the greenish, swampy plain that surrounded him. Smoke and debris blew across the top of the trench in a wet roar, momentarily blocking out the drizzly slate-grey of the cloud-heavy sky._

"_Who's hiding?" Kimbley queried from somewhere nearby, the anger in his silky voice echoing all around. "I'm not hiding; I'm biding my time."_

"_For what?" Jean laughed, giddy with triumph, "We are a little... _indisposed_ at the moment, you and I. Unless you think you can chew through the straps holding my arms down. "_

_Kimbley didn't reply to that, but Jean heard a small, frustrated _boom!_ emanate from somewhere to his left. Jean cackled, so completely elated that he could barely contain himself. Oh, Maes Hughes, you _brilliant_ man! It had been mere hours since everyone had figured out that Jean was not acting on his own will, and already they had identified the demon who was possessing him! At this rate, it wouldn't take long for them to find a way to banish this Crimson Alchemist from his body and put everything right again._

_Even more joyous than that, though, was the fact that Mustang was still alive! When Jean and Kimbley had first seen him yesterday, sitting beyond the shattered window of the interrogation room, Jean had immediately assumed that he was just hallucinating. Considering what he'd been going though lately, it only made sense for him to start hallucinating... But no, Mustang was really alive. He'd looked like shit but, oh, he was ALIVE! He hadn't been killed by Jean's hand. He hadn't died because of his lieutenant's inability to control his own body..._

_But that look on his face... that shocked, disbelieving, crushed expression that had contorted Mustang's face as Jean's hand slid the knife into his stomach... that could not be erased. Jean would live in horror of that image for the rest of his life._

_He shuddered to himself guiltily just thinking about it and then, suddenly, his surroundings flickered and changed._

_The swampy muck of the foxhole he was sitting in abruptly burst into a lacey array of color, flowers popping out of the ground all around him, like a colony of particularly energetic gophers. Grass sprouted from the walls of mud and the walls themselves sank back into the ground, the earth leveling itself and brightening into a poppy-covered meadow—a meadow that Jean had known intimately as a child._

_Beside him, a huge oak tree shot out of the grassy landscape like a dart, branches and leaves unfurling to sparkle, dew-laden, in the cheerful sunlight. The initials J.H. marred the tree's trunk in fresh-looking gouges, though it had been over a decade since Jean had carved them there. _

_Time had no place here, though, and logic was just as outcast._

_Jean shifted where he sat and leaned his back against the familiar tree, scarcely noticing the transition of scenery. It happened frequently, sporadically... because, after all, he was _dreaming_, wasn't he? At least, that was the only way he could think to describe it to himself._

_Life for him in the past week had become a dream—a nightmare, really—and his reality was in constant flux. One moment he could be back at the office, scanning over paperwork that his eyes couldn't seem to focus on, and the next he could be on the battlefield, or in his apartment, or—as he apparently was now—in his childhood stomping grounds. Sometimes he could control the direction of this constant dream, but mostly he just went with the flow, bemusedly watching the world around him twist itself into new shapes every few minutes. _

_He was trapped within his own mind and his subconscious overwhelmed him in a surreal slipstream of memories and delusions, as if his brain was just firing off images and sensations at random. _

"_Well, maybe it will rain _tomorrow_," one of the flowers next to Jean's foot opined, as if continuing a conversation that they had been having. The center of the flower had the face of a beautiful woman, her deep red petals framing her face like elaborately styled hair._

_Jean looked away from her with a bored sigh and decided not to answer. Maybe he really was going insane. It wouldn't surprise him. Nothing would surprise him at this point._

"Havoc!" _a voice in the heavens boomed, _"We still need to talk to you."

_It was Hughes again. Ugh... Jean didn't want to talk anymore... it was so hard. He'd given the man as much as he could, had withstood the wracking pain for what had felt like hours. He had the alchemist's identity now, what more did he need? Jean had earned the right to rest for a while, hadn't he?_

"Please, Lieutenant..." _another voice said, a younger voice. Was it Edward?_ "I need to ask you something."

_Jean groaned and closed his eyes. He wasn't really sure if he'd be able to resurface this time. He'd expended most of his waking energy earlier, simultaneously divulging information to the best of his ability and resisting Kimbley's efforts to silence him._

_But still... Jean couldn't give up just because he was tired. Not if he wanted to live through this. He took a breath—a dream-breath, he supposed, since his physical body was breathing at another pace entirely—and tried to wake up._

He opened his eyes and the sickly light in the room pierced them painfully. Ed and Hughes were both hovering over him.

"Ch-Chief..." Jean managed. Even just the strain of working his vocal chords hurt. Everything hurt. It hurt so much. His head was pounding so hard that he thought his skull would blow apart. The straps at his wrists and ankles chafed badly. His wounds burned with an unbearable heat, as if someone were shoving white-hot pokers into them ceaselessly. Even the hospital clothes he was wearing felt like it was raking off layers of skin if he so much as moved. It was as if his whole body had become hyper-sensitive to every sensation, so sensitive that every little bit of friction that touched him was agony. Even something that should have been soothing, like the cool sweat on his fevered brow, felt like shards of ice on his skin, so unbearably cold that he wanted to scream.

"Havoc..." Ed started again, his voice trying to stay strong, "I need you to tell me where the circle is."

"...What...?" Jean asked, his mind too full of pain to hear him very well.

"The transmutation circle that the alchemist used," he clarified, "There should be one somewhere on your body. Do you know where it is?"

"I... I don't... ngh..."

"I don't think he understands..." Hughes told Fullmetal quietly.

Bullshit, Jean understood perfectly well, he just couldn't say anything. They couldn't possibly realize how much they were expecting from him. He was in pain and this was _hard_. And who knew when Kimbley would show up and...

Jean's back arched up off the bed and he sucked in a huge, agonized gasp as the pain in every inch of his body flared up tenfold. It was Kimbley, trying to get back in the driver's seat. Jean could feel him pushing himself upward into the forefront of his consciousness, inflicting him with pain to try and make him lose his grip on his own body and plummet back down into dreamland. Jean fought against him, trying to force him back, but god, he was already so tired.

"Just give up, already!" Kimbley shouted, overtaking his mouth, "You can't beat me!"

Jean gathered all of his strength and held on long enough to say one more thing:

"Tell... tell Mustang s-sorry."

His eyes closed.

_When they opened again, he was back among the poppies—though many of the flowers, inexplicably, seemed to be contorting themselves into multicolored fish. Jean could hear Kimbley and Hughes shouting at each other, but didn't pay much attention to it. He had done all that he could for now, but he would try again later. Kimbley was getting tired, too, whether or not he would ever admit it, and Havoc was able to break past his barriers more and more often._

_It was becoming clear to Jean that the Crimson Alchemist wasn't going to be able to keep this up forever... but neither could Jean. But when one—or both—of them got too tired to carry on, who knew what would happen? If Kimbley's soul vanished, would Jean regain complete control of his body? He'd thought so at first, but now he wasn't so sure... because even when Kimbley wasn't fighting him, it was still so hard to communicate with the outside world. _

_Maybe there was something wrong with his body. Maybe it couldn't handle the presence of two souls. Kimbley didn't seem much troubled by the pain that Jean faced, and he suspected that the alchemist couldn't feel it. Maybe Jean's body was shutting down, too overloaded to go on. Frankly, Jean had no clue. He would have loved to float his ideas by somebody but, of course, he knew that he'd never be able to vocalize all that he wanted to say. He could always ask Kimbley, he supposed..._

"_Hey, Kimbley!" he called to the open air, "You around still?"_

"_Shut up. Your voice is irritating," came a reply from somewhere beyond the meadow._

_He laughed to himself quietly. Kimbley pretty much hated him and Jean delighted in being as annoying as he could, whenever he was able... which was probably why Jean really didn't see Kimbley that often—"See" probably wasn't the right word, since they weren't in a real location, but Jean went with the analogy. Jean's subconscious was a big place, but he would catch sight of him occasionally and could almost always hear him just randomly blowing shit up. _

_Jean didn't know much about the guy, but he seemed to like explosions..._

_A blue-and-pink scaled flower-turned-fish flopped against Jean's knee._

"_Oh, pardon me!" the fish said with a very sophisticated lilt to his voice, like a university professor, "I can't seem to find any water to swim in... how embarrassing! Could you possibly direct me...?"_

"_...There should be a stream over there somewhere," Jean said, playing along—as he often did—with his delusion. He pointed toward where he knew there was a thin break in the meadow's soft grass, a stream where he had launched paper boats with Heymans when they were small._

"_Much obliged," the fish said, flipping and bouncing in that direction, his scales catching the sunlight fetchingly._

_Jean watched him go, half-amused, wondering what the hell was wrong with his head._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

((A/N: A couple of reviewers brought up that they think Ed and Roy should not be surprised by the thought of two souls in one body because of the Slicer Brothers in Lab 5.

I respectfully disagreee with that, because 1) the Brothers weren't really in one body; they were bound to _two separate pieces_ of armor that could be put together or taken apart, and 2) Havoc is a living, breathing thing and the armor, clearly, is not.

In my mind, at least, Havoc's situation is a completely different scenario from the Brothers and it wouldn't beg comparison in Ed or Roy's mind... Sorry for any confusion on that.))


	8. Monster

Ed walked back down the hallway with Hughes, not sure what he was supposed to think about all this. As far as Ed knew, Hughes never kept secrets from Mustang... but now here he was, telling Ed to keep his mouth shut about something that he thought was pretty important. Why was Hughes heading this investigation at all, if he didn't want anyone to know who the criminal was? What gave the lieutenant colonel the right to do that?

Then again, Ed had to admit that he'd been rethinking his perception of Hughes during the past two days. It seemed as if the happy-go-lucky man had darkened into a serious and dour—and even slightly violent, Ed observed, when it came to Havoc's interrogation—soldier that scarcely resembled the Maes Hughes that Ed had thought he knew.

Not to say that Hughes had never been serious about his job. That certainly wasn't true, for Ed had seen him get pretty intense when he was working, barking out orders and physically taking people down when he needed to. No, Hughes was definitely dedicated to his line of work... but never before had Ed felt threatened by that.

"Remember, Edward," Hughes said quietly as they reached the door the to meeting-room, "Not a word."

Ed didn't say anything, knowing that if he opened his mouth, his anger and disbelief would spill out. Hughes was blackmailing him, and there was nothing that Ed could do about it.

When Ed had tried to argue that Mustang really _should_ know about his attempted murderer, Hughes had calmly said that if Ed told anyone, he could easily make his military life hell. He didn't bother describing how, but Ed fully believed him and felt a tiny thrill of confused fear and impotent rage tingling in the pit of his stomach. Hughes was pretty high up in the military, and could no doubt do what he offhandly threatened. Ed was trapped between what he thought was right and what was best for him and Al.

Hughes pushed open the door and they went inside. Al was sitting next to Hawkeye at the table, having gone in while Ed was trying to talk to Havoc. Mustang was on Hawkeye's other side and Breda was on the other side of the table, next to Fuery.

"Our top priorities at the moment are to figure out who, exactly, has taken control of Havoc... " Mustang was saying, motioning Ed to come in and take the chair beside Al without breaking speech, "And, more importantly, how can he be detached."

"Do we even know how to go about doing that?" Fuery asked, eyeing Mustang uncertainly. This was probably the first time that he had seen the colonel awake and—even allowing for his injuries—Ed had to agree that he did _not_ look good.

Mustang took a breath and rubbed his eyes, obviously in pain and trying not to show it. "Well, our first step to identifying this person is to go through the prison records... those that weren't destroyed in the fire, at least. We've already gotten a start on that, and Hughes seems to be making some headway..." he paused for a beat, watching Hughes seat himself beside Breda. He looked at him for a moment critically, then continued on. "Any alchemists imprisoned there would have been labeled as such in their files. The legal system likes to keep close tabs on us once we've proven ourselves... untrustworthy." His last sentence was said with a humorless smile that sent a chill down Ed's spine.

"And the other part?" Fuery pressed on, "How do we figure out how to... to de-possess Havoc? We're not talking exorcism or anything... are we?"

"No, certainly not..." Mustang sighed harshly, "We aren't dealing with demons, here. This has nothing to do with God, or the devil, or priests, or spirits. This is science. We are dealing with a scientist, not a monster. A human being, just like the rest of us. Never forget that. There is _nothing_ supernatural going on here."

Fuery ducked his head a little at the bare irritation in Mustang's voice and didn't say anything else.

Mustang continued looking at him for a moment, then his shoulders slumped and he rubbed his face again, "But, to answer your question... I have no idea how to 'de-possess' Havoc. That is why Fullmetal and his brother are here. I don't know anyone more knowledgeable on the subject of soul-binding than these two boys." He turned to Ed, "Any comment?"

Ed deadpanned for a moment, startled. Though he'd infrequently sat in on some of Mustang's staff-meetings, he'd never spoken at them, and being asked to voice his thoughts now—while he wasn't exactly shy—was a little intimidating.

"Well," Al began when Ed floundered, "The most we can say right now is that this is definitely different stuff than my soul-binding... For starters, this alchemist must have a lot more control over Havoc's body than I do over mine. I mean, this person can even control Havoc's _voice_. I don't have a voicebox, I speak with my soul, in my old voice... but this person has learned to manipulate more than just Havoc's movement. If he controls his voice, he controls his breathing... and that must mean that this goes very deep."

He paused and looked to Ed, who cleared his throat. "We're thinking that there has to be some sort of a transmutation circle somewhere on Havoc's body. In Al's case, his circle is the only thing keeping his soul attached to the armor."

"So if we just destroy the circle, Havoc'll be okay...?" Breda asked hopefully.

Ed bit his lip. "Well, that's what we thought at first... but like Al says, it goes deeper than that and Havoc certainly doesn't look good... He's feverish and Hughes says that the doctors don't know why... I think the criminal is doing it, though I can't be sure. There has to be something more to it, for... for this _alchemist_ to have so much control." He looked over at Hughes as he emphasized the word 'alchemist' and the man's eyes narrowed. Ed glanced over at Mustang and saw that he was looking back and forth between Ed and the lieutenant colonel, expression closed.

"Anyway," Ed continued, "I don't think we should risk messing with the circle just yet... once we find it, at least. I'd like to do some research first. This is some heavy alchemy, but I'm confident that we'll be able to find some theoretical journals on it somewhere."

"Sounds like a start," Mustang agreed. He turned to Hughes, "If you could enlist Private Scieszka to find any and all books relating to soul-binding theory, I'm sure it would be a great help. There's a phone at the other end of the ward."

"Yes, sir," Hughes replied grudgingly, knowing that he was being dismissed. He shot another warning glance at Ed as he got to his feet and saluted, but then he turned and left without another word.

Mustang didn't turn to watch him leave, and instead addressed his other men, "Hawkeye, I'd like you to go and get an updated copy of Havoc's medical records. I wasn't aware that Havoc was feverish on top of everything else. I want to be kept better informed, people. Fuery and Breda..." he stopped, seeming to falter a little, then finished quietly, "Go see Havoc for a while."

"I'll get the hospital security to unlock the door for them," Hawkeye volunteered.

"Thank you, sir..." Fuery rasped. Breda just nodded, swallowing tightly as they both stood. All three of them saluted and filed out of the room.

Mustang waited for the door to close behind them before he fixed his penetrating gaze on Ed.

"So. Edward," he said casually, "Anything you'd like to tell me?"

Ed's eyebrows raised, impressed. Clever man. Maybe he hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said that he knew people and how they behaved. He already knew that something was up without anyone even saying anything. No wonder he'd made it so far in the military before he'd even reached the age of thirty; he was ridiculously observant and calculating, and knew how to glean advantage from having such a focused gift.

Ed hesitated before speaking. "Before I say anything," he began, "How much power does Hughes have over me? Military-wise?"

Mustang's brow furrowed, "Well, he outranks you... but I have the power to overturn any order he gives you, if that's what you're worried about."

"What's going on, Brother?" Al asked, sounding a little concerned.

"Hughes ordered me to keep my mouth shut about something, under the threat of making military life more difficult for me."

"He's bluffing," Mustang smirked, "You're under my command, not his. He can't do anything to you."

Ed sighed, still unsure.

"Is it something that you really think I should know?" the colonel prodded patiently.

"Yes."

"Then tell me."

He licked his lips. "...We know whose soul is bound to Havoc."

Mustang steepled his fingers calmly, unsurprised. "I figured. Hughes rushed out of here earlier while he was going through the prison records, I could only assume that he'd found something."

Ed felt a tremulous little wave of relief. This wasn't as hard as he'd thought it would be... He'd thought that Hughes and Mustang told each other everything, but Mustang looked as if he was used to Hughes routinely hiding things from him. He didn't look happy about it, but he certainly wasn't shocked.

"Do you know the alchemist's name?" Mustang asked, "Is it someone I know, or just a random assassin?"

"Um, I don't know... I think he might have been a State Alchemist, but Hughes wouldn't give me a straight answer. I can't remember his name... it was something like Kelley or Kimble..."

"...It wasn't _Kimbley_, was it...?"

"Yeah, that was it," Ed remembered, snapping his fingers, "The Crimson Alchemist, right?"

Mustang froze, stiffening as if the alchemist's title had inflicted him with physical pain. His face contorted with incredulity, then darkened with rage and, as Ed watched him, he slowly realized that he had never really seen Mustang get angry before.

"_What?_" the colonel demanded.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Jean looked really bad this morning. Not to say that he'd looked good _yesterday_, but there was a definite decline in his health that both Heymans and Fuery couldn't help but notice.

He didn't really respond much when they came in, but when Breda called his name, he opened his eyes and looked over at him briefly before letting them fall shut again.

"Jean?" Heymans called again, reaching over to take his fettered hand in his own, "Can you hear me?"

"Jean is unreachable at the moment," the body before him said sardonically, eyes still shut, "Would you like to leave a message?"

Heymans' insides squirmed, sickened to hear such words coming from Jean's mouth, in Jean's voice, but know without doubt that he wasn't really the one speaking.

"I want to talk to Jean," Heymans asserted.

"I'm sure he would if he could, but he's had enough fun for one day and he's a little tired, so shut up."

"Fine, we'll talk to _you_ then."

The alchemist sighed loudly, irritated, and looked over at him again. "I have nothing to say to either of you."

"Then just sit back and listen, because I have _a lot_ to say to you, you sick fucker."

"Ooh, _feisty_."

"What kind of a person does something like this? You haven't hurt just one innocent man, but _two_!"

"Innocent, innocent..." the alchemist mused, "You like that word, don't you? I'll admit that Lieutenant Havoc here was an 'innocent' bystander who happened to suit my needs... but as I've said before, Mustang is far from innocent."

"Roy Mustang is a good man," Fuery said, speaking for the first time since they'd entered the room. "One of the finest I know."

"Roy Mustang is a liar and a coward. He's a manipulative bastard who would do _anything_ to excel in the ranks..."

"Oh, shut the fuck _up_..." Heymans spat, "We've all heard the rumors. We all know that he was ordered to do some terrible things in Ishbal. We've heard it all, it's old. Moreover, it's gross exaggeration. He's not the demon he was made out to be, I know that for a _fact_."

"Really? 'For a fact', huh? How do you know? Were you in Ishbal? Did you see what he did for yourself? I did."

"It doesn't matter what he did! He was under orders, none of it was his fault!" Heymans exploded, "He is a good person and he would _never_—"

Heymans' tirade was cut short by the unlocked door slamming open to reveal the subject of their debate, Roy Mustang, bracing himself in the doorway, back heaving with exertion and fury.

"_You son of a bitch_..." he panted, eyes wild with some kind of frenzied expression somewhere between rage and agony. He staggered over to the bound figure on the bed, hands shaking murderously, but Fullmetal ran into the room right behind him and grabbed him by the arm, dragging him back. Alphonse stood just beyond the doorway, nervously wringing his waistcloth in his metal hands.

"Hey!" Ed shouted, "Colonel, stop!"

"He's Kimbley!" Mustang roared, struggling against Edward's hold on him. Heymans rushed over to them and put his hands on the colonel's shoulders, helping Ed keep him back.

"Mustang!" Havoc's possessor exclaimed in mock-pleasure, grinning at him. He pulled himself upright against the head of the bed with sudden interest, the slack on the straps binding his ankles to the bed allowing him enough leeway to sit up. "We were just talking about you!"

"You fucking traitor!"

"I see you've let your hair grow out a little. It's cute. I meant to say something about it before, but I was too distracted by the delicious feel of your blood on my hands..."

"_Monster_!"

"Aw, listen to the pot calling the kettle black..."

Mustang made a guttural, animal sound and lunged against Heymans, fighting to get at Havoc. Heymans pushed him back and together, he and Ed forced him back out into the hallway.

"Sir, you need to calm down..." Heymans said, gripping his shoulders tightly and pressing him back against the wall of the corridor gently, "You're not well..."

"I am _not_ going to calm down!" he bellowed, "Do you know who that _is_?"

"...What's going on?"

Everyone looked over to see Lieutenant Colonel Hughes storming toward them. He took a look at the open doorway to Havoc's hospital room, then glanced at Mustang's gasping, unspeakable wrath, then his eyes snapped over to glower at Edward.

"You _told_ him?!" he demanded.

Ed's eyes were huge, one hand still holding onto Mustang's arm. "I..." he stumbled, but Mustang stepped in before he could say any more.

"He didn't tell me anything, I figured it out on my own!" Mustang seethed, shrugging Heymans off and jerking is arm out of Ed's grasp. "And how _dare_ you try to keep this from me! What would make you do such a thing?!"

"I was afraid you'd over-react. Silly me."

"You _know_ my history with that bastard!"

"And that's exactly why I wasn't going to tell you yet!"

"I h-had a right to know!"

"Yes, you did. I agree with that, and I _was_ going to tell you, but the timing wasn't—"

"_Fuck_ the timing, Maes!" Mustang screamed at him, clutching the front of his uniform with trembling hands and jerking their faces close together. "Havoc is stuck in there with that... that psychopath...!"

Hughes glared down at the colonel sharply, but then his expression softened a little, "Roy, are you okay...?"

"Timing doesn't matter!" Mustang ranted on as if Hughes hadn't said anything, "We don't _have_ any time! We... W-we..."

Mustang's eyelids wavered and he trailed off with a helpless little gasp. His legs gave out from under him and he sagged backward, letting go of Hughes in the grip of a dead faint. Breda yelped and caught him from behind to keep him from falling, gently sinking with him down to the floor. Hughes dropped down beside them quickly, his mouth a tight line of alarm. Mustang gave a soft little groan and doubled over, pressing a hand to his wound. His face had gone completely ashen and his white lips trembled as he panted in air.

"Deep breaths, Roy..." Hughes crooned tensely, all traces of his anger vanishing like a drop of water on a hot frying pan, "Come on... just breathe..."

Mustang bowed his head further and did as he was told, sucking in slow, deep breaths as he fought against his looming blackout.

"Is he okay?" Alphonse squeaked. Ed stood next to him, looking half-panicked.

"I think so... Roy?" Hughes queried gently. Mustang nodded to confirm that he was okay but didn't speak, too focused on his suffering body's need for oxygen to bother vocalizing his wellbeing. "I think he just got a little too worked up... Damn it, Roy, you need to rest. You can't keep running around like this..."

"I'm... I'm _f-fine_, damn it.

"Sorry, but your argument isn't very convincing," Hughes told him dryly, "You're going home."

"No..."

"Too bad. There's nothing you can do about it. I'm in charge of this investigation and I have command over the hospital security. I can have you escorted off the premises if you won't go quietly."

Mustang looked up at him incredulously, a droplet of cold sweat trailing down from his temple. "You can't..."

"I can. And I will. I do have the authority. Not to mention, you're still on record as being under strict medical care, so technically I outrank you by default. I'm serious, Roy; you aren't up to this. I'm not going to make you stay in the hospital, because I know that you really don't want to... but I _order_ you to go home."

Mustang stared at his friend, looking betrayed. He knew that Hughes was right and that he did have authority, but he looked as if he hadn't realized that until just now... and he did not like the idea in the slightest. He lowered his eyes and nodded with an angry sort of resignation, then tried to get to his feet.

Hughes supported him and, together, they slowly straightened. Mustang looked ready to faint again just from the effort of standing, but he managed to stay on his feet. Hughes watched him for a moment, lips pursed, then,

"Alphonse," he said, "If you'd be so kind, would you carry the colonel down to the entrance and hail him a cab?"

"_What_?" Mustang asked, "Now, Maes, _really_..."

"Do you really think that you can walk that far on your own?" Hughes countered reasonably.

"No... but, I--"

"It would be faster if he just carried you, and I want you out of here _now_."

Mustang's face darkened. "You can be a real asshole sometimes, Maes."

"Only when I need to be." He turned back to Al, "Alphonse, please."

Alphonse made a low, unhappy sound, then shuffled over to the colonel awkwardly. "Sorry, sir," he apologized with a little bow, then moved in to scoop him up.

Mustang pressed his back against the wall, seething. "You're not carrying me, Alphonse. You can help me, but I will _not_ be carried."

"Fine," Hughes conceded, "Alphonse, help him get into a cab and take him to his apartment. I want you to stay with him and make sure he doesn't go anywhere."

Mustang rolled his eyes, angry but too tired to argue further. He put a hand on Alphonse's arm and motioned for him to lead the way with a curt tilt of his head. Al looked back at Edward helplessly, then slowly guided Mustang away. Ed moved to follow them, but Hughes dropped a heavy hand onto his shoulder and he stopped in his tracks, his face suddenly nervous.

Heymans, Fuery, Hughes, and Edward watched Mustang and Alphonse disappear around the corner and, for a moment, no one spoke. Finally, Heymans was moved to break the vaguely tense silence.

"That was a little harsh, don't you think?" he asked Hughes, cocking an eyebrow.

"Nah," he replied, "I wasn't really going to make Al carry him... I just said that to make him more compliant about leaving..."

"Ah, manipulating the manipulator. Good work."

Hughes grinned, but then he looked down at Edward and sobered, digging his fingers into the kid's shoulder. "Did you tell him, Edward?"

"...He told you that I didn't."

Hughes continued to stared down at him, looming with silent threat the same way he had loomed over Havoc in the interrogation room. Ed looked back up at him defiantly and though his face seemed to blanch a little under his tan skin, his gaze didn't waver.

"...Fine. Go help your brother."

"Yes, sir."

"Just keep Roy in his apartment and make sure he doesn't hurt himself, okay? I told Scieszka to deliver the alchemy books there so that Roy can help with the research."

"Thank you, sir," Ed said with a grudging kind of gratitude.

"I'll be over later this afternoon to check on him, but first I need to make some calls and get some more information on Kimbley. Just help him out until then, okay?"

"Yeah. Fine. Can I go?"

Hughes let him go and Ed shoved his hands in his pockets moodily before slouching away from them, going after his brother and Mustang. He looked like he wanted to run down the corridor and get out of sight as quickly as he could, but he made himself walk slowly, head held high.

"So... I'm guessing that we know who is possessing Havoc, now," Fuery said as Ed rounded the corner, "At least, that's what I got from all the yelling..."

Hughes sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, "Mm-hm... Major Zolf Kimbley. Remember him?"

"Vaguely... He was that alchemist who went nuts on his superiors in Ishbal, right?"

"He slaughtered them, if that's what you mean. Roy had to bunk with him in Ishbal; he never went into detail, but the guy is apparently a complete wacko," Hughes confirmed grimly, "He'd have to be, to willingly kill his own allies... Roy was a key witness at his trial and did everything he could to put him behind bars. It's no wonder Kimbley wanted revenge..."

"And now he's got a hold of Havoc..."

Hughes nodded slowly, looking back in through the open doorway at Havoc.

"But we'll fix that."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"...I'm sure the cab will be here soon..." Alphonse said, uncomfortable with just sitting in silence with Roy on the low wall in front of the hospital.

Roy grunted, not really wanting to talk. He was upset and he knew that if he said more that a few words, he'd probably start yelling again... and everyone had seen where _that_ had put him: on the floor gasping, trying to stay conscious. Damn, he'd been so mad at Maes... He still was, but he _did_ understand his friend's reasons for trying to keep him in the dark. Now that his shocked fury had passed, he'd had time to stop and wrap his head around what he'd learned.

He couldn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it. Not Kimbley... God, _anyone_ but Kimbley... Roy's skin crawled just thinking about it, and his already-unsettled stomach churned threateningly. Roy _hated_ that man... and feared him. Even after all this time. Even after convincing himself that he'd healed from those old wounds. Even after gaining some personal retribution by helping send him to prison...

He shuddered and allowed himself to lean on Alphonse a little more, furtively trying to seek some kind of assurance from his solidity. He felt childish, but he was tired and sick and, oh, he was _terrified_ for Havoc. It had been horrifying enough to know that he was being controlled by some alarmingly powerful criminal, but for that criminal to be _Zolf Kimbley_...

It was like a nightmare. Havoc was caught in a nightmare that he couldn't wake from. Kimbley was going to wreck him, completely tear him apart from the inside... He was going to drive him insane. Even if Kimbley didn't kill him, he would wish for death by the end of this, however it ended. _If_ it ended. Roy knew Kimbley. He knew him more deeply than he'd ever wanted to, had seen him ruthlessly murder families in their beds...

Actually, no, that wasn't true. He didn't kill them in their beds. He woke them up first with a few loud bangs, because he wanted to see the fear in their eyes when he finally struck. He'd wanted them to have time to realize what was about to happen to them... and then he'd picked them off one-by-one: first the men, then the children. The women he saved for last because, as he'd told Roy more than once, he liked the way that they screamed when they saw their husbands and young ones blown to pieces in front of them. He'd jerked off to it at night, knowing that Roy was still awake bunk next to his and not caring.

Roy shuddered again, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. Roy didn't think that there was any person in the world that he hated more.

"Are you alright, sir?" Alphonse asked, "You keep shivering."

"It's cold," he rasped, hugging himself and trying not to think about the demon from his past.

It wasn't why he was shivering, but wasn't really lying, either; he _was_ cold. He felt completely bloodless and the sweat on his face and neck was cooling in the soft breeze. He was glad to be outside, though. The fresh air was helping to calm his rapid pulse and clear his enraged, horrified thoughts. The fact that he was sitting down helped a lot, too. He's stopped shaking and, though his head was pounding and his wound was killing him, he didn't feel like fainting anymore...

"Hey."

Roy looked up. Edward was coming toward them sullenly, face drawn. He hopped over the low wall and seated himself—not next to Al, as Roy would have expected, but next to Roy.

"Hughes give you the third degree?" Roy asked him.

"Yeah... He's pretty mad."

"Let him be mad. _I'm_ mad as hell."

"...Thanks for covering for me back there."

Roy shrugged. "I was only half-lying. I already knew that he'd figured something out... even if you hadn't told me it was Kimbley, I would have worked it out eventually. But Hughes had no right to put you in that situation, especially without you knowing his reasoning."

"Well, to be honest," Ed mumbled, crossing his arms, "I probably wouldn't have told you if I knew you were going to freak out like that... You scared the hell out of me. What did this Kimbley guy do to make you hate him so much?"

"You mean _besides_ possess one of my closest subordinates and use his body to stab me? Do I really need more reason?"

"But there must have been something before that for him to want to stab you in the first place," Ed said rationally, "You even said that you two had a history..."

"...We were in Ishbal together... just leave it at that."

"But—"

"I'd really rather not discuss it. He's a monster and I will stop at nothing to save Havoc from him. _Nothing_, Edward."

Ed looked at him for a long pause, so long that Roy had to look away from him, uncomfortable. Finally, the kid said, "Al and I will do all we can to help, won't we Al?"

"We won't let you down, Colonel," Alphonse agreed quietly.

Roy's heart swelled unexpectedly. "I appreciate it," he said, downplaying the sudden surge of gratitude in his breast. He knew that Ed and Al would be helping him with this regardless--even if they didn't want to, Roy could have simply given Fullmetal the order—but hearing them, _both_ of them, so sincerely pledge themselves to his cause without any sort of coercion was deeply touching.

Ed smiled, then looked up as a cab pulled up to the curb in front of them. "Come on, sir," he said, gently taking Roy's arm to help him up, "Hughes is having Scieszka deliver our research materials to your place, so we can get started on everything once they arrive."

Roy grunted as he stood, both in agreement and in half-concealed pain. He was with Ed; he wanted to get started as soon as possible. He was deeply encouraged by Ed's confidence and eagerness. Together, the three of them could make this right again and remove Kimbley's presence from Havoc's body. Ed and Al were capable of miracles, Roy had seen it himself. They were powerful and they were _so smart_. If anyone in the world could help Havoc now, it was them, and all of them needed to act quickly.

The three of them got into the cab and settled themselves on the long back seat.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

Roy thought for a moment, then "Ed, do you know where Hughes is now?"

"Um, he said he needed to make some calls..."

"Good, that should keep him occupied for a while. Do you know what the others are doing?"

"No..."

"We'll have to watch out for them, then. Driver, if you would, just take us around to the back entrance of the hospital."

The driver's eyebrows quirked curiously, but then he shrugged and started driving.

"Colonel?" Al asked, looking down at him.

"I want to go back up and see Havoc before we leave. You're right, Edward, there should be a transmutation circle on his body somewhere, and I think we should take a look at it before we go any further."

"I agree..." Ed said grudgingly, "But let me and Al go in, you can go on home."

"I will. After we find the circle. I'd like to see it myself so that I can get an idea of what we're dealing with."

"Colonel, I really think—"

"Ed, _please_ don't argue with me. I'm tired of being treated like an invalid, even by you," he snapped, "I won't break, okay? I'm still capable of doing my job, so _let me do it_!"

"...Fine. Do what you want," Ed sniffed indignantly, looking out the window, "Let Hughes get angry again, I don't care."

"Good, then come on. I'll need you two to keep watch."

Ed and Al exchanged a look as the cab stopped again on the other side of the hospital, then Ed sighed loudly, rolled his eyes, and got out of the car. Al followed close behind and helped Roy get back on his feet.

Within moments they were back inside, wandering though the hospital corridors. Ed and Al were casting their eyes around vigilantly for any sign of Maes or Roy's men, but it looked like the coast was clear and they made it back up to Havoc's room without much trouble, other than Roy needing to stop and breathe a few times. As difficult as it was for him to move around, he thought that he felt a little better than he had earlier this morning—either that, or he was just becoming accustomed to constant pain. Walking this much was probably good for him, in spite of how hard and painful it was. He was, however, getting very tired, and was almost looking forward to going home after this. A nap and a double-dose of aspirin sounded absolutely _divine_.

Roy tried to turn the handle on the door and found it to be locked. He wasn't at all surprised and motioned for Ed to come over and open it. Reluctantly, Ed clapped his hands together and touched the handle. There was the typical flash of light and then the handle turned easily under Roy's touch, the lock disengaged.

He pushed the door open, but then hesitated. He didn't want to talk to Kimbley. He didn't want to be alone with him.

"Alphonse, you come in with me. Ed, you stand guard."

"Whatever," Ed muttered under his breath and turned his back on them to make sure no one came down the hallway, "Hurry up."

Roy swallowed his trepidation and stepped into the room, Al close behind.

"You came back?" Kimbley asked, feigning shock, "I _knew_ you'd missed me."

Roy didn't answer him. He didn't even look him in the face. He wanted to be in and out of here as quickly as possible. Just find the circle, commit the lines and shapes to memory, and leave. Simple. He took Havoc's arm and started searching, running his eyes along the muscular limb, then pushing up his sleeve to check his shoulder while Al did the same on his other arm.

"Nothing so far," Al said when Roy looked up at him questioningly.

"What, you're ignoring me?" the demon pouted when he realized that Roy wasn't going to talk to him.

Again, Roy didn't say anything. He checked around Havoc's neck, then pulled down the low collar of his hospital gown to check his chest. Nothing. He moved down methodically, hiking up the gown to check his stomach and sides, knowing that Kimbley was watching his every move through narrowed eyes, no doubt knowing exactly what he was doing. As Roy had assumed he would be, Havoc was naked under the hospital clothes, so he searched his abdomen and groin quickly so that he could pull the gown back down again just enough for the sake of modesty. He knew that Kimbley didn't care, but he wanted to protect Havoc's decency as much as he could, whether or not he was even aware of his surroundings at the moment.

"Reminds you of base camp, doesn't it, Roy-Boy?" Kimbley teased, scooting down on the bed a little so that the hem of his hospital gown rucked up again, exposing his genitals.

Roy's insides clenched with disgust and self-revulsion, his fearful eyes flicking over to Alphonse to see his reaction. Al was still ignoring Kimbley completely. Perhaps he was still too young and naïve to pick up on the implication in Kimbley's words, and Roy was grateful for that. He shook himself and pulled down the hospital smock again before asking Al,

"Anything?"

"No..." Al said thoughtfully, "But maybe it's on his back and we just can't see it because he's tied down to the bed. Do you want me to loosen his restraints so that we--"

"_No._ Don't... Just... just look elsewhere. That'll be a last resort."

Al nodded and moved down to check Havoc's leg. Roy did the same on his side, silently coaxing Kimbley into bending up his knee so that he could check the underside of his thigh. Nothing, other than the white swatch of gauze covering his bullet-wound. He peeled back a corner of the bandage and looked at the wound. It wasn't pretty, but it didn't look too bad. It was red and swollen around the dark stitches, and no doubt painful.

"...I'm sorry, Havoc," he found himself saying softly, genuinely grieved that he'd had to shoot his subordinate, even if it had been necessary.

Havoc's body suddenly stiffened on the bed and he moaned plaintively, "M-Mustang..."

"Jean?" Roy asked, quickly moving back to the head of the bed, "Is that you?"

He nodded, then moaned again as a tight, pained shudder ran through him. He tried to say something, but then shrieked in sudden agony, clearly fighting to stay in control.

"R-right... right leg... bandage..." he finally managed to force out, panting with the effort.

"You heard him, Al. Check around his wound," Roy ordered.

"Ah! There!" Alphonse exclaimed as he pulled off a corner of the bullet-wound dressing on Havoc's other leg, "I found it!"

"Good work, Havoc. Thank you," Roy said to him, reaching forward to brush his sweaty blond hair out of his eyes. He could feel the fever rising from his skin, emitting sick, clammy heat. "We're going to fix this, my friend... Please, just hold on a little longer."

"'M sorry... I'm so... so s-sorry, C-Colonel..." he whispered, tears welling in his exhausted, bloodshot eyes. "I... I didn't want..."

"I know. I don't blame you. Besides," he smirked warmly, "I got to shoot you twice and you only got to stab me once, so let's call it even, shall we?"

Havoc favored him with a wavering grin and gave a sharp exhalation; half-laugh, half-sob. Roy smiled back, then returned to the foot of the bed and leaned over Havoc's legs to see what Al had found.

It took him a full three seconds to realize the dangerous position he had put himself in by leaning over him like that, having briefly forgotten that Havoc had enough freedom of moment in his legs to draw them up. Roy moved to straighten up again, but it was too late. In those three seconds, Kimbley had regained control and quickly used that power to drive his knee hard into Roy's unprotected stomach.

He choked on the sudden burst of agony as he felt something tear, then the world rocked and he hit the ground hard like a sack of wet sand, unable to process anything outside of the overwhelming pain and the sound of Alphonse screaming for his brother.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ed ran back into the room at his brother's cry and stopped dead when he saw Mustang's body on the floor. The colonel's eyes were wide with shock, his teeth clenched as he curled around his wound in a tight ball, clearly too overpowered by pain to even _think_ of trying to get up again.

Kimbley was laughing hard in a sickening, faux-good-natured way, "Oh, oh man... the look on his face!"

"Al, pick him up!" Ed shouted, "Let's get him out of here!"

Al had already stooped to collect the colonel in his arms before Ed even said anything and they ran out of the room quickly. But where to go?

"In here!" Al said, pushing open the door to one of the many empty hospital rooms that surrounded Havoc's. They rushed in and Al set the colonel down as he started to struggle a little in his arms. Mustang staggered forward a few steps then leaned against the wall with his back to them, doubled over with his hands holding his wound.

"Sir, are you okay?" Ed asked, heart pounding, "Are you bleeding?"

Mustang didn't say anything, just continued gasping against the wall, curling in on himself a little further.

"Sir...?" Ed pressed, moving over to him and putting a hand on his back.

"Just give me a second..." he rasped, his voice so tight that it cracked slightly, sounding suddenly very young. Mustang composed himself with few more deep breaths then finally straightened a little and pulled his hand away from the wound. "Shit..." he cursed quietly when he saw that it was smeared with red.

"Come on, sir. Lie down on the bed," Al urged him, brushing Ed aside a little to take Mustang's arm and pull him gently over to the closest bed. "Let me see how bad it is."

Surprisingly, Mustang let himself be pushed onto the bed and just closed his eyes tightly as Al unbuttoned his shirt with a surprisingly authoritative air. Ed just stood back and watched, jittery with anxiety. Al pulled back the blood-wet cloth to reveal a large, soggy rectangle of gauze that was rumpled and almost completely saturated with blood.

Ed swore. "Should we call someone?"

Mustang shook his head, but didn't seem to be able to speak. He closed his eyes and let his head sink back against the pillow, covering his mouth with one hand.

"Let's have a look at it first..." Al said warily, watching Mustang's face as he started peeling off the gauze, "It might not be that bad..."

Al pulled at the gauze and Mustang abruptly screamed. He bit into his own hand to muffle the sound and Ed felt a jolt of terrified sympathy-pain stab coldly into his own gut.

"Sorry..." Al apologized shakily, "it got caught on the stitches..."

Mustang didn't reply, just sucked in frantic breaths through his nose and tried to stay quiet as Al removed the rest of the bandage.

Ed almost gasped when the wound was uncovered. It was a lot bigger than he'd thought it would be. It wasn't just a straight inch-wide stab-wound as Ed had anticipated. It looked as if Havoc hadn't just stabbed him, but had completely sliced him open when he'd pulled the blade back out. The wound had to be around five inches long, and one corner of it was bleeding freely, the stitches torn and the flesh inflamed.

"See...? It's not so bad..." Al said, trying to sound confident and failing miserably as he took a corner of the bed sheet and tried to wipe some of the blood away. "I'll, uh... I'll just go find some fresh gauze... Hold this. I'll be right back..."

He made Mustang hold the sheet to his wound and hurried out of the room. Ed heard him start running the moment he was out in the hallway, no doubt going to find help. He probably just didn't want Mustang to argue about being readmitted to the hospital and so fibbed about just going out to get gauze. The wound really didn't look like it had been re-injured too badly, but Al always did have the mindset of "better safe than sorry" and Ed completely agreed with him in this case. If he had known the wound was this huge, he never would have taken Mustang out of the hospital to begin with.

Mustang didn't seem to notice the ruse at all, distracted by the indescribable pain he must be experiencing. He opened his watery eyes and gazed up at Ed.

"He'll be back in a minute..." Ed told him awkwardly, feeling like he should reach over and take his hand, but wary of actually doing something so intimate.

Mustang's eyes wandered for a moment dazedly, then closed. He quickly made himself open them again, battling against the urge to give in to unconsciousness, then took his hand from his pallid lips and grabbed Ed's wrist.

"Help me up," he ordered, his voice so thin and low that he scarcely sounded like himself.

Ed hesitated, not knowing whether or not it would really be good for him to be sitting up at the moment, but then carefully supported him as he pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, legs dangling over the edge. He hunched his back and whimpered, uncaring that his open shirt had slid down off of his pale shoulders, draping from his back and arms like a shawl. His skin was unhealthily white and it shone with perspiration as he shivered and gasped, his bare shoulders starting to quake.

He put his hand over his mouth again quickly and moaned, turning his face away from Ed a little.

"You gonna hurl?" Ed asked him, perhaps a little tactlessly.

Mustang nodded and Ed automatically started looking around for something for him to be sick in.

Al chose that moment to reappear in the doorway. "I had the hospital page Hughes," he said, no longer caring about keeping up with his white lie now that Mustang couldn't argue against getting help. "He should be here in a few moments."

"Damn it, why didn't you get Hawkeye instead?" Ed whined, walking over to retrieve the small metal wastepaper receptacle from between the two beds. "Hughes is going to absolutely murder—"

Ed was interrupted by the wet, gagging sound of Mustang vomiting behind him. He winced, his own stomach turning. Ed wasn't really very squeamish—he was _usually_ okay with gore, as long as it wasn't too terrible—but vomit bothered him. It had ever since he was little.

"Oh... brother, he's bleeding..."

Ed tried to ignore his own nausea and looked over, thinking that the spasm of vomiting had torn Mustang's stitches even further. What he saw, though, was far more worrisome.

Mustang's shoulders heaved again and a fountain of red spewed from his mouth and onto the already-soaked surface of the bed; not vomit, but _blood_. And _lots_ of it. Mustang gave a short, choking little cry of pain, then opened tightly-closed his eyes and saw the blood for himself. He froze, eyes widening, knowing immediately what it meant.

The blow to his wound must have torn much more than those few stitches on his belly. He was hemorrhaging internally, rapidly bleeding to death from the inside.

Mustang wiped his mouth on the back of his arm calmly, then slowly turned his head to look at Edward. All color had vanished from his face except for the smears of dark red dripping from his lips.

"Ed, it's not your fault," he said urgently, the desperation in his voice sending terror down Ed's spine... because he knew that Mustang wouldn't be saying that unless he thought that he was about to die and didn't want Ed to blame himself for it, as he knew that he would.

Mustang quickly turned his head and heaved again, collapsing back down against the bed as the blood loss finally started to overtake him. Ed dropped the metal bin that he'd picked up and it hit the floor with a resounding clatter as he ran to Mustang's side.

"No! Just lie still, Colonel, you're okay..." Ed cried as Al turned and ran out the door again, realizing that they were going to need more help than Hughes could provide on his own. "Just stay awake, you'll be okay..."

"Roy, what the he—" Hughes started as he stumbled into the doorway, half bowled over by Alphonse's hurried passage. But then he caught sight of Mustang and the massive puddle of blood beside him and decided that explanations could wait.

He ran to them and took Mustang's limp form in his arms, one arm cradling his back, the other ghosting over the wound on his abdomen. When he realized that the gash wasn't the source of all the blood, he looked up into Mustang's face in alarm, staring at the blood on his lips.

"Oh... oh no, Roy..." he moaned when he understood, his words made soft with breathless horror. Mustang didn't give a response to his voice or presence. He probably couldn't even hear him any more, his senses secreted away under the cloak of Death, his eyelids sliding half-closed over blind eyes.

Hughes looked up at Ed, his own wide, panicked eyes bright with the beginnings of tears. "Ed... Ed, go get help..."

"Al's already doing that..." Ed told him, voice hitching a little as Hughes' tears drove home the reality of what was happening. _Oh God... Oh, Mustang, no..._

"_Just go_!" Hughes shouted, frightened and angry as his eyes overspilled.

Ed spun and bolted out the door after his brother, terrified of what he'd allowed to happen.


	9. Purgatory

_Jean roared and launched himself at the grinning man, throwing himself on top of him, and both of them hit the sand in a tangled heap. He pulled back his fist and punched Kimbley hard in the face, knowing that he couldn't feel it and becoming even more enraged because of that. He would have killed him with his bare hands if he could have. He would have completely ripped him apart for what he'd just done._

_Kimbley laughed riotously, not even trying to fight back as Jean uselessly punched him again and again. The sand they were wrestling in suddenly shifted and the two of them sank into it, the shimmering grains enveloping them deeper and deeper until the ground just opened up and swallowed them whole._

_Everything went black as they fell through the tight space, their bodies crushed together by the dense expanse of sand. It scraped against Jean's arms and poured into his clothing. He gasped and the salty granules filled his lungs, suffocating him. He was about to start panicking—knowing that it was just a nightmare, but still terrified—when the sand below parted and a stripe of light shone up to them. They plummeted from the sea of sand and into the vibrant blue of an empty sky._

_Jean was gripping Kimbley hard by the front of his shirt, his anger unfazed by the psychotic world shifting around them._

_"Haven't you done enough to him?!" Jean shouted at him over the roar of the wind, pulling their faces together as they fell, "To_ us_?!_

_"_Him_? What about what _he's_ done to _me_?" Kimbley rejoined, sneering, his tight ponytail loosening as they fell, the wind whipping his black hair around his face. "I was imprisoned because of him! Have you ever been behind bars? Do you know what it's like?"_

_"It can't be any worse than what you're doing to me now, you bastard!"_

_Kimbley laughed again, but this time there was no real humor behind it. He pushed himself away from Jean, flipping backward into a perfect swan dive and rocketing downward to the earth below. Jean cursed and went after him, free-falling through empty space with his arms held stiffly at his sides. He gained speed and when caught up with Kimbley, he landed a savage kick to the side of his head, sending him careening into the top branches of an impossibly tall tree. The madman disappeared into the thick foliage, sending a flurry of dislodged leaves twirling to the ground._

_Jean grabbed a branch in passing and let himself drop gracefully onto a sturdy bough. He crouched down and looked around, trying to peer through the dense clusters of leaves, knowing that Kimbley was somewhere beyond._

_"I'm not finished!" Jean shouted, "Why are you running, coward?"_

_"You irritate me," came the dull reply, "My beef is with Mustang, not with you. Stay out of it."_

_"How can I stay out of if you won't get out of me?!"_

_Kimbley chuckled, the silky sound emanating from one of the lower branches. "I would if I could, believe me. I'm not exactly thrilled with our arrangement, either. I should have been more patient and waited until someone else came by. I should have bound myself to Hughes... that would have been perfect: Mustang murdered by his best friend... oh, it's pure poetry."_

_Jean clenched his fists in frustration and jumped down to the next bough. He lost his footing and flailed to regain his purchase, resting his hand against the monster tree's trunk. The bark was warm and soft like velvet, as if it were alive. _

"_You're a sick man, you know that?" he muttered, taking his hand from the tree's warmth uneasily and looking around for him again._

_"I've been called worse," Kimbley said, his face flashing into sight briefly from behind a veil of greenery. But then he was gone again, like a panther hunting in the jungle; silent and lusting for blood. Jean growled and went after him, but the tree had other ideas and decided to spontaneously suck itself back into the ground with a loud, almost-comical slurping sound._

_Jean leapt from his perch as the top of the tree disappeared into the earth, and he landed on the rocky ground with an odd sort of lightness. Kimbley touched down a few yards away, his bare feet lighting on the smooth, water-worn rocks beneath them as gracefully as a dancer's. Kimbley sighed after a moment and reached up to re-wrap his long hair into a ponytail, gazing out across the crystal-blue lake that had manifested itself in front of them._

_"You have strange dreams, Lieutenant," he said as he flipped his hair back over his shoulder carelessly._

_Jean sat down on one of the larger rocks and crossed his arms over his chest. He was so livid that he could feel his heart—his _real_ heart, beating a million miles away in his physical body—start to pound harder. He wanted to make Kimbley pay... but there was nothing that he could do. Kimbley couldn't even feel it when Jean attacked him, so what was the point? He felt helpless in his fury, unable to do anything to avenge his fallen commander..._

_God, what if he'd really hurt Mustang? He looked like he went down pretty hard..._

_He closed his eyes tightly. It wasn't going to help matters worrying about it... Someone would eventually come into the hospital room and let him know what was going on... Besides, if getting stabbed couldn't keep Mustang down, then a little kick was probably nothing..._

_Jean opened his eyes again and saw a figure standing at the water's edge, his back to Jean and Kimbley. He was dressed all in white linen and the loose fabric flapped around him in the gentle breeze, like a pale flag raised above the battlements._

"_Mustang!" Jean called out breathlessly without thinking, then fell sullenly silent as he remembered that everything around him was just a figment of his imagination, no matter how real it seemed... no matter how much he wanted to see the real Mustang standing before him like this, completely untouched by injury, shoulders back and head held high as he stared out across the water..._

_The dream-Mustang turned his head slightly at Jean's call, but not enough for Jean to actually see his face. Jean knew it was him, though... or, at least, his unconscious perception of him._

"_Mustang's not really that tall," Kimbley commented, walking over to the silent figure casually, "And his shoulders aren't that broad."_

_Jean shrugged irritably. "Like I have any say over the images my brain is producing. I'm sorry he doesn't meet your specifications."_

"_I'm not complaining. I just think it's interesting that, in your head, he looks so much more powerful and imposing than he does in real life..." he mused, circling Mustang like a vulture. Mustang didn't seem to notice him, and instead bent to pick up one of the smooth, flat rocks lying at his feet. "Is that some hero-worship I smell?"_

"_I have great admiration for him, if that's what you mean."_

_Kimbley smirked nastily, "Of _course_ you do."_

"_Damn it, what is your _problem_?" Jean exploded finally, getting to his feet and storming over to him, "Mustang is a good man. He didn't deserve any of this! It wasn't his fault that you went to prison, that was your own fucking fault for committing murder!"_

"_He killed more people than I did back in Ishbal. By over a thousand."_

"_That doesn't matter, he was under orders! And _he_ didn't kill his allies!"_

"_Oh, didn't he? Those doctors looked like allies to me..."_

_Jean faltered a little at that, but then pushed onward, "...He was ordered to do that, too. It wasn't his fault. He was forced to do it."_

_Kimbley looked up at him blankly, then looked back over at the dream-Mustang. "Is _that_ what you told him?" he laughed, "What other lies have you been spreading, Major Flame?"_

_Mustang didn't answer him, just took the rock that he'd picked up and tossed it with a flick of his wrist, skipping the black stone across the top of the water and creating tiny ripples in the mirror-smooth surface._

"_He wasn't lying! He wouldn't lie about that!" Jean sputtered, indignant._

"_Right, because Roy Mustang is such an _honest_ man, isn't he?"_

"_Yes. He is."_

"_You poor, deluded fool. How long did it take him to manipulate you into believing that?"_

"_God, shut up already," Jean hissed, lowering himself down onto the ground beside where Mustang was standing. "Stop trying to turn me against him. I trust him completely."_

"_Hm... You're right. I suppose he isn't _all_ bad... I will say this for him: he can give one _hell_ of a blowjob."_

"_...You're disgusting," Jean grimaced, looking away from him._

_Kimbley sniggered, taking Mustang's jaw in his hand roughly and pulling their faces close together. "You say that now, Lieutenant, but once you get his sweet little mouth on—"_

_Kimbley cut off abruptly, freezing where he stood. Jean was about to testily ask him what the fuck was wrong with him when everything—the entire world, it seemed—collapsed in on itself in a brilliant burst of silver and black. _

_For just a split second Jean felt like he was falling again, tumbling through space so violently that he didn't know which way was up. But then it stopped, ceasing just as abruptly as it began._

And then there was the pain.

Jean's eyes shot open in shock, the hospital room around him seeming like it was expanding outward in his skewed, pain-blurred vision. He screamed his agony to the empty room, every muscle in his body tightening hard against the freezing, burning, stinging, throbbing, aching, crushing, unbearable sensations that had completely usurped every niche of him. He couldn't think, he couldn't even breathe beyond drawing a breath with which to scream again. His insides were being boiled. His skin was being melted away by acid. His eyes were sharp rocks of ice, slicing into his eye-sockets and assaulting his brain with the deep, heavy agony of bitter cold.

All he could do was scream and thrash on the bed he was bound to, shrieking and sobbing helplessly as the nameless pain battered against him in an unceasing wave. He tried to hold it back, to tell himself that this pain was probably all in his head, something that Kimbley was doing to him... but, oh, it had never been this bad before. He couldn't bear it. He _couldn't._

Even as he was screaming, though, he heard something. He didn't realize what it meant at first—he was too distracted by feeling as if he was slowly being ripped apart to even _care_ what it meant—but he could hear another sound above the roaring, pleading cacophony of his screams.

It was another voice, equally raised in the bloodcurdling throes of agony.

It was Kimbley.

_Blackness came again and Jean found himself sprawled on a hard wooden floor with another body, gasping for imaginary air and trying to get a hold of himself. Kimbley was on the floor with him, one of his arms haphazardly flung over Jean's chest, panting just as hard._

_For a moment, neither of them made any attempt to move, still wide-eyed with shock and terror over the pain that they had just experienced. It had been so unbelievably bad that Jean wondered if it had killed his body... but, no. He could still feel it peripherally, trembling and empty, but still alive._

"_What the f-fuck was that?" Kimbley demanded after a beat, his voice sounding just as frightened as Jean felt._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Edward sank a little further into his seat, trying—as he had been for the past five hours—to become invisible. He wanted to leave. No one would blame him for leaving, would they? But, no, he couldn't do that... it would be wrong of him to leave, after what had happened.

Al said that it wasn't his fault. Hawkeye said that it wasn't his fault. Even Mustang had said that it wasn't his fault... But Hughes said nothing at all. He wouldn't even look at Ed. He just sat there in the waiting room's thinly-padded chair and stayed silent, his gloomy thoughts kept to himself. Hawkeye sat next to him, her hand resting lightly on his, both of them trying to pretend that they weren't afraid. They'd whisper to each other occasionally, but Ed could never hear what they were saying. Al could probably hear them, though; he was sitting next to Hawkeye and Ed was slumped in his chair on Al's other side, glad to have both the huge metal mass of his brother and Hawkeye's stoic form sitting between him and Hughes.

The surgeons were still working. They'd been working for _hours_, now. Someone had come out a few times to pull Hughes and Hawkeye aside and tell them how things were going and, though Ed was too far away to really make out what they were saying, he could tell from the gray, drawn expressions on the soldiers' faces that the news was not good. But, truthfully, how could the news possibly be anything _but_ bad at this point? Mustang had suffered massive bleeding for the second time in less than a week. He had been torn open _again_. He was having surgery _again_. He wasn't going to survive this. There was no way that he could lose that much blood and still be okay. Mustang was strong... but not _that_ strong.

"I'm going to go get us some coffee, sir," Hawkeye told Hughes quietly. "You take it black, right?"

"Yes, thank you," he replied, smiling at her sadly.

She smiled back weakly and patted his hand before standing. Hughes watched her go, his smile fading the moment that she looked away.

"Al," he said gently when she was out of earshot, "Will you—"

"I'm on it," he said, standing and following Hawkeye before Hughes had even finished his request. She was suffering too, and that was driving Alphonse insane. Ed felt that Al was probably just as worried about Hawkeye as he was about Mustang. Alphonse loved Hawkeye dearly and would do anything for her.

Ed liked her well enough, but didn't fully relate to Al's complete devotion to her. Maybe Alphonse saw her as a kind of mother-figure. Perhaps he was still young enough to _need_ that reassurance and warm love, in spite of how much he and Ed had been forced to grow up over the past few years. Hawkeye, for her part, indulged his affections and even seemed to return them and Ed was happy that they shared this unspoken bond. He was a little envious of it, too, though... He wanted that kind of reassurance, too. He didn't need it, but he wanted it.

Hughes had tried on many occasions to make Ed and Al both feel welcomed and loved, but Ed was always too skittish to return the fondness that he bestowed upon them. Even Mustang had, in his own harsh way, given them guidance and security in times of uncertainty. Ed always tried to convince himself that Hughes was just an annoying goofball with his head in the clouds, while proclaiming that Mustang was just an asshole who didn't care about anything other than rising in the ranks... He hadn't wanted to get too close to either of them. Now, though, he was on the brink of losing them both—Hughes was furious with him and would probably never forgive him for what he'd allowed to happen, and Mustang was...

Ed closed his eyes tightly, guilt eating away at his insides like an ulcer.

There was silence in the small waiting room. Hughes and Ed were the only people in it, now, sitting two empty seats apart. Hughes stared straight ahead through the open door, waiting for the other door across the hall to open and deliver forth a messenger to tell them whether or not his best friend had died. Ed stared at the wall in front of him, half-afraid to even look at the Lieutenant Colonel, afraid to see the anger and the hurt behind his eyes.

After what might have been three minutes or three lifetimes, Hughes spoke. His words were low and even, absent of and kind of feeling, good or bad.

"All I asked you to do, Edward," he said slowly, "was take him home and keep an eye on him. That's _all_ I asked you to do..."

"...I know."

"What were you thinking? This is the second time today that you've gone against my orders, and _both times_ Roy has suffered for it. Why can't you just listen to me?"

Hughes wasn't yelling. His voice was actually very soft, almost a whisper, but Ed shied from him a little as if he were screaming at him.

"He said that he was okay," he answered finally, lamely, keeping his voice just as empty as Hughes'. His eyes never strayed from the wall in front of him, taking in every detail of the ugly floral wallpaper.

"I know what he said. He said it to me, too. He said it to all of us, Ed, but everyone knew it was just a front. Did you really believe that he was okay, when you had seen him _collapse_ just minutes before? I entrusted him to you and Alphonse, because I honestly thought that _you_, of all people, would ignore his protests and make him stay put. Apparently, I was wrong to think so."

"...Apparently."

There was silence again in the little room, both parties continuing to stare straight ahead. Ed's view of the wall was starting to blur, though, the pink flowers and green leaves softening, colliding, and combining like wet paint bleeding together on a cheap canvas. He worked his jaw hard against the pain in his heart that he had been trying to deny was there, but his eyes continued to fill until he was afraid to even blink, not wanting the tears to actually overflow and spill down his cheeks.

"...If he dies, Ed..." Hughes started again, but then his voice abruptly broke and he had to stop.

Ed swallowed and gritted his teeth, fighting to keep the sob growing within him contained. The tears in his brimming eyes ran-over, landing in warm, fat drops on his clenched hands. Suddenly, he and Hughes were both crying—as silently and unobtrusively as they could—sniffing to themselves softly and wiping their eyes on their sleeves like little kids, each pretending not to notice the other's grief as they struggled to hide their own.

God, why _hadn't_ Ed just listened to Hughes? Ed disobeyed the colonel all the time... what had changed? Why couldn't he have just told the colonel to shut up and stop whining as he usually would have? Maybe Ed just hadn't wanted to believe that Mustang really _was_ weak and that he really _did_ need help. Maybe Ed hadn't wanted to think about how the Flame Colonel had almost died. Perhaps he hadn't been able to accept that, because—goddamn—Mustang was so powerful and so sure of himself and so, _so_ unstoppable... and if he could fall so easily... slain by something so common as a six-inch blade... then the world could fall to pieces with just as little effort. Reality would shift and one of the few constant securities that Ed possessed would fail... because, while Ed didn't always _like_ Mustang, he was always there whenever anyone needed him.

But Ed needed him now—both Ed and Hughes desperately, frantically needed him—and he wasn't there. All because of Ed and his willingness to blindly cosset Mustang's waning strength and put him in danger for the sake of his own peace of mind.

The sob he'd caged within him suddenly broke free and he had to clap his hand over his mouth, biting into the underside of his middle finger to keep himself from breaking down completely.

He was such a coward...

Ed saw Hughes look over at him, his hunched form blurred in Ed's teary periphery. Ed couldn't tell what kind of expression he wore on his face—hatred, or disgust probably...—but he refused to turn his head and actually look at him. He just wanted Hughes to stay over there and not talk anymore.

Not that there was anything more that he could say to make Ed feel any worse than he already did.

But then the man stood, crossing the space between them in two hesitant strides. He paused, standing over Ed wordlessly. Ed still didn't look at him, but his heart quivered with dejection and fear to feel him looming so close. Finally, Hughes crouched down in front of him, bringing himself a little lower than eye-to-eye.

"I... I don't want you to blame yourself. I really don't," he sniffed thickly, "You were careless and you disobeyed me, but this didn't happen because of you. Roy put himself in this position, and Kimbley was the one who hurt him. You didn't prevent this from happening, but you didn't cause it, either... I'm as much to blame as you are. I should have just taken him home myself, but I was too preoccupied with figuring out how to punish Kimbley..."

"No..." Ed wept, wiping his eyes again and finally looking at him, "No, you were just doing your job... I just failed to do mine by not f-following your orders... I'm sorry, Hughes... I didn't..." His throat closed up and he cut off with another choking sob, burying his face in his hands, ashamed of his tears and of his actions.

Scarcely a moment passed before Ed found himself entwined in Hughes' big arms, being crushed to the man's chest in a brutal, familial kind of embrace. Ed stiffened for a moment in surprise, not used to such contact with anyone anymore. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd been held like this and at first it was both shocking and uncomfortable, but then a deep, lost kind of sob made Hughes' back tremble with grief and Ed was immediately moved to hug him back.

"I'm sorry, too..." Hughes gasped, "I know it wasn't your fault. It wasn't. I can't be mad, but I just... I'm _scared_, Ed... I don't know what to do..."

Ed sniffled and wiped his face against Hughes' uniform, pressing his damp eyes against his shoulder and burrowing into his embrace, longing for any kind of reassurance that he could get from him—fragile an tearstained though it was—and silently trying to give the grieving man that same kind of comfort, holding him tighter.

"M-maybe he'll be okay..." Hughes consoled hopefully, pulling away a little to look him in the face, "I mean, if you're going to pop your stitches, a hospital is the place to do it... If he had been anywhere else, the doctors probably wouldn't have been able to help him in time, but since he was already here..."

"Sir?" Hawkeye's voice came. Hughes and Ed both looked up at her. Her face was white and her eyes were both sympathetic and a little frightened. "The surgeon is out in the hallway. He wants to speak to us privately."

Hughes' shoulder tensed beneath Ed's hands, his anxiety manifesting itself by spastically bunching his muscles. He took his glasses off and wiped his red, puffy eyes quickly before getting to his feet and letting Hawkeye lead the way back out into the hallway. He gave Ed one last, encouraging glance over his shoulder, then he was gone... And Ed would have given just about anything for him to come back and hold him again.

"Brother?"

Ed rubbed his eyes as Al sat down next to him and put a hand on his knee. He didn't need to say anything, just his presence was enough to hearten Ed a little. Al was always so upbeat and optimistic, even when things looked completely hopeless. Maybe it was because he wasn't afraid of being seen as weak the way Ed was... the way _Mustang_ was. Weakness had never been an issue with him, and he was more concerned with sympathizing with those around him rather than holding himself aloof, trying to seem strong and untouched by whatever tragedy was around them. In many ways, he was much stronger than Ed was... and he didn't know how he would ever be able to live without him.

Ed leaned over and rested his cheek against the cool metal of his arm, wondering how Hughes would handle it if Mustang really did die.

Minutes passed and neither Ed nor Al spoke. They just sat together in the waiting room, terrified of what Hughes and Hawkeye would tell them when they came back. Ed kept his cheek pressed comfortingly against his brother and Al reached over to stroke his hair, mindlessly watching the door.

When Hughes finally came back into the room, he did so hesitantly. He didn't run in and happily shout "he's okay!" as Ed had hoped that he would. He wasn't smiling, bouncily jubilant at just hearing that his best friend was going to be perfectly fine. He didn't look happy, or even relieved. He sat down next to Ed slowly, his face pale and his jaw tight.

"Well...?" Ed asked him, his heart pounding with fear, "Is... is he...?

Hughes swallowed. "No, he's alive. He's out of surgery now, but... but he's not doing too great. His condition is still pretty critical."

"...What exactly does that mean?" Al asked.

"It means we might not know anything for sure until tomorrow. He's stabilizing, but it's still kind of touch-and-go right now."

"...Oh."

Hughes looked at them for a moment, then sighed. "Look, you boys should go on back to your dorm and get started on researching the soul-binding. It's going to be a long day over here. I'll call you if anything happens."

"The books are all at Mustang's apartment..." Ed reminded him, his throat too tight to speak above a whisper.

"Oh... Right. Well, here," he pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and unhooked one from the ring. "This'll open the front door. Do you remember how to get there?"

Ed and Al both nodded and stood, not knowing how to feel. Ed had expected to leave this room either feeling elated that Mustang was going to recover or devastated because he had died. Now, though, he was stuck somewhere in between. Mustang wasn't dead, but the outlook didn't seem too good, either. It was like some kind of purgatory, and Ed didn't know how to deal with it.

"Okay then... Take care, sir," he rasped, patting his arm as they passed him and went out into the hallway.

Hawkeye was leaning against the wall on the other side of the hall. Al gave her a tiny little wave as they walked by, but she didn't even look up. Her disturbingly shadowed eyes just continued to stare down at the tiled floor, lost in thought.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Maes pulled the clinking metal cuffs from his belt and stepped forward, flicking them open with a practiced hand. He approached the bed and secured one of the cuffs around the iron bedrail as quietly as he could, trying to ignore the nurse hovering behind him.

It had been hours before Maes was even allowed to go into his room. When Roy's doctor came out to tell him that he was starting to stir a little and was responding to stimulus, Maes thought his heart would explode. That was a good sign.

Still, it was almost another whole hour before Maes was actually allowed to go in and see him, and even then he was accompanied by a nurse and given only a few moments with him.

But now here he was at his bedside, looking down on his placid face. Roy hadn't _really_ woken up yet. He'd opened his eyes and had even spoken a few words, the doctors said, but his consciousness was still heavily-laden with bodily trauma and drugs. He was still very hazy and, though his condition had been upgraded to "serious", he still wasn't out of danger. He was passing the crisis point, but he still had a long road ahead of him.

Maes took Roy's hand and squeezed it gently. "Can you hear me?"

Roy's eyelids lifted a little, his unfocused eyes searching for the source of his voice in the softly-lit room.

"Roy?" he called when he started to close his eyes again. After another beat, he sluggishly looked over at him. For a moment, he looked as if he didn't recognize him, but then he made a soft little sound in the back of his throat and squeezed his hand back.

"...You're an idiot," Maes told him quietly, his heart shuddering with relief, "You know that?"

Roy made another little sound, probably not understanding what he was saying, and let his eyes droop shut. Maes sighed and lifted Roy's hand, setting the other cuff to his wrist and clicking it shut.

"Maes...?" Roy asked, looking over at his cuffed wrist in sleepy confusion.

"I'm not willing to risk you hurting yourself again. You're staying put this time."

Roy's brow furrowed uncomprehendingly. He tugged weakly on the tempered metal bracelet, making it scrape against the bar he was cuffed to. "...Maes...?"

"Do you understand me, Roy? I will _not_ let you keep doing this to yourself. If you so much as _leave this room_ without a doctor's permission, I will have you arrested for resisting an officer."

Roy pulled at the cuff again, with a little more strength this time, his cloudy eyes starting to focus with comprehension. He almost looked scared.

"I'm not fucking around anymore. I'm tired of being disobeyed."

"...Maes..." he rasped, trying to sit up and failing, reaching for him. "Maes..."

"We should let him rest now, sir," the nurse spoke up, clearly wanting him to leave.

Maes sighed sadly and nodded. He leaned forward and kissed Roy's cheek.

"Goodnight, Roy. I'll come back and see you tomorrow morning," he said, then did one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do and turned his back on him. He walked away from Roy even as he called Maes' name over and over again, his voice so small and frail that it sounded like a child's. Maes didn't look back, but gently took the nurse's arm as he passed her.

"Keep him sedated," he ordered her in an undertone, "I'm not taking any chances this time."

"Yes, sir," she acquiesced, though he could tell from the look in her eye that she didn't agree with his orders.

He gave her another cool nod and left the little room, blocking out Roy's strained, disquieting voice.

"Maes... _Maes_..."


	10. Innocence

((A/N: this chapter is a little squicky. Just a heads up.))

He didn't know how long he'd been here. The gray, fading light outside the one small window went dark, and now it was brightening again in the warm rise of morning, so he must have been here for hours and hours. Every time he opened his eyes, the sun was higher in the sky, it's smooth ascension interrupted only by Roy's jolting, half-formed dreams. He had no grasp on time. It was liquid, it flowed like cool water, unstoppably immeasurable.

He couldn't focus.

People came and went. Strangers with needles and stethoscopes prodded at him, then flitted from the room like spirits, seeming to disappear so quickly to Roy's half-lucid mind that he wasn't entirely sure that he'd really seen them in this first place.

He kept drifting in and out of consciousness, floundering on the border of reality and nightmare, his mind assailed with unwanted fears and memories that he'd thought were long forgotten...

_Roy sat in the fine, powdery desert sand, the dun-colored granules still warm from the day's blazing sun, though night had fallen hours ago. In spite of the late hour, the half-destroyed village around him was bright with the flickering hellfire wrought from his own damned hand, the red-orange-yellow-white flames of destruction swarming to consume what little remained of the humble buildings._

_Roy just sat there on the ground—glad that most of the screaming had died away fairly quickly this time, snuffed by the smoke and fire—holding a child in his lap. The child was doomed, so badly burned that Roy couldn't even determine its sex, yet it was still alive, repeatedly moaning out one of the few Ishbalan words that Roy knew: "Dajaa'n... dajaa'n... dajaa'n..."_

_Mother... mother... mother..._

"_...What the hell are you doing, Flame?"_

_Roy looked up to see Kimbley standing near him, the bright light of victorious battle burning in his golden eyes, flickering with even more heat than the fires around them. His smile was wide and excited, like a kid at the circus told that he could have free reign of the show._

"_Waiting," Roy rasped, holding the child a little closer. The child was crying softly, deliriously in its final moments, though it could not shed any actual tears since its tear-ducts had been melted shut by Roy's fire. It wouldn't be long._

"_Waiting for what? Come on, we're done here, let's go back to camp."_

_Roy didn't say anything, just held the child and waited for it to die. _

_He had been able to distance himself from it for the first week or so. "It'll get better," he'd told himself, "The killing will stop and the Ishbalans will surrender quietly, then we can all go home." It wasn't getting better, though. The orders kept coming to kill, kill, kill. The State Alchemists were sent out nightly to destroy, then the whole camp would pack up and move on when there was no one else to massacre, then they'd park in a new location and start it all over again. _

_Over and over and over again._

_Roy was so sick now. He was sick of being here, sick of the ash and the soot and the heat and the stink of death that wouldn't come out of his clothes. He was sick of pretending that this didn't bother him, that he didn't think this—all of this—was unspeakably evil. He was sick of following orders. He was sick of himself for following the orders anyway, no matter how sick they made him. He was even _more_ sickened with himself for trying to enjoy the slaughter the way that Kimbley did. Even worse than that, sometimes it even worked._

_It had worked today. Roy had, with Kimbley's constant coaxing, honestly felt some pleasure in what he was doing. Flames flew from his fingertips and engulfed buildings, and he had been proud of the strength and heat of them. It was intoxicating to see those frightened Ishbalans running from his might. He was powerful. He was a god. They had _better_ run. This was his element, this fire was his and he could bend it to his will. He lived to see the flames dance, to watch them feed on whatever he decided to feed it. He owned it. He was its master._

_Maybe the battlefield made him a little mad. Maybe the scent of seared flesh made him channel the berserkers of an age long dead and throw himself mind, soul, and heart into the thrill of war._

_Now, though, now that there was nothing left to burn, no one left to kill save the fading child in his arms, his horror came back to him in a chill cascade of self-hatred and regret. He got lost in the remorse and the sickness and now here he was; on the ground, waiting for his final victim of the night to give in and let go. The child deserved some comfort before it died, didn't it? Didn't it deserve to be held, just one more time?_

_Roy closed his eyes tightly and ducked his head, willing back the urge to weep—something he'd become very good at lately._

"_Aw, Mustang," Kimbley scolded with a twisted kind of affection, shaking his head tolerantly, "Get over it, already. Fuck. It's just a job."_

"_Just a job..." Roy repeated, re-opening his dry eyes and trying to believe him. The child in his arms coughed and gurgled._

"_...Dajaa'n..." it whispered, one blackened, deteriorating hand reaching toward Roy's face._

"_Enough of this foolishness," Kimbley muttered, bending down and resting his hands briefly on either side of the child's charred face._

_The child gasped harshly, but even with that vague warning it took Roy's dazed, grieving mind a moment to register what Kimbley had just done. Roy cursed and threw the child off of him when he realized, but not quickly enough. The small body fizzled and exploded before it even fully left Roy's arms, coating his lap with bloody lengths of entrails. Blood and offal splattered upward against his chest and the underside of his jaw, some of it creeping up so far as to dampen the corner of his mouth with wet warmth._

"_Oh, I am _good_..." Kimbley bragged, looking down at his handiwork, "I didn't even singe you, did I?"_

_Dumbstruck, Roy just shook his head, his wide eyes watching a chunk on flesh slide from his hand and hit the sandy ground with a soft, wet _thump_._

_Kimbley sighed harshly and grabbed Roy by his arm, roughly yanking him to his feet._

"_Get up, you coward. We have to go back to camp."_

_The guts spilled from Roy's lap and onto the sand as he stood and the tangled ropes of meat were instantly covered in pale the grit at his feet._

_He followed his bunkmate all the way back to camp without speaking, shocky from the abhorrent act that Kimbley was treating so casually. Roy reported in to his superiors when they arrived—as he always did--then washed himself off and went straight to bed._

_It wasn't until hours later, when even Kimbley was finally asleep in his cot, that Roy awoke in a cold sweat, stumbled outside, hit his knees, and threw up._

Roy opened his eyes again. He didn't remember closing them, but time had passed without him knowing it. The sun was higher, sending a stripe of light directly into his face. He turned his head away from it and caught sight of the handcuffs locking him to the bed. His heart jumped into his throat as he remembered where he was.

No, no, no, not here... Not with _him_.

He jerked his hand back, futilely trying to slip out of the cuff in his returning panic. The metal bit into the stinging, scraped flesh of his wrist that had been worn raw hours ago as he tried to free himself. He didn't want to be here. He had to get out. God, where was Maes?

"Maes...!" he choked out weakly, searching the room with his bleary eyes for anyone who could help him. He couldn't be here. Kimbley was here somewhere. Roy didn't know where, but he was _here_ and Roy was trapped. Cuffed to a bed. Helpless.

Someone appeared before him and rested a warm hand on his brow.

"Shh..." she shushed gently, pushing his hair out of his eyes, "It's alright, sir. Just rest."

It was Hawkeye. Her voice was soft, her hand comforting on his brow. He felt the drugged calm of sleep coming for him again, pulling him downward from the living world. He fought against it, terrified of going back under and leaving himself vulnerable. Terrified of what visions he might see.

"No..." he moaned, taking her by the wrist with his free hand and guiding her to the cuff, hoping that she would remove it. "Please... Riza..."

He couldn't really see her. His vision was too dim and blurred to make her out properly, but he felt her stiffen with alarm.

"Oh, Colonel, your wrist!" she exclaimed, pushing the cuff aside a little to check the damage he'd done to his flesh. He didn't care. He'd tear his hand off completely if it meant that he could get out of here.

"Off..." he pleaded, pulling so that the cuff clanked against the metal bedrail plaintively. "Riza..."

"I can't take it off, Roy..." she told him heavily, dropping her usual formality as she stroked the back of this hand with her thumb. "I'm under orders. Hughes is afraid you'll hurt yourself again, and your body really can't take anymore trauma... You're pretty bad off as it is."

Roy groaned, understanding most of what she was saying, but unable to give her a coherent reply. He couldn't make his mouth form words without extreme effort and his head was even fuzzier now than it had been when he'd been on the morphine earlier. He was completely incapacitated now... he could barely even move, and that scared him deeply.

"Off," he insisted as well as he was able, "...K-Kimbley..."

"Kimbley?"

"Not... n-not... safe... Please..."

Hawkeye went silent for a moment, her warm, gentle fingers still trailing over his hand and arm. "...You aren't in any danger here, Roy..." she said hesitantly, speaking slowly to help him understand. "Kimbley is locked up still, two floors below us. He doesn't even know where you are."

"No... I..." he moaned, starting to hyperventilate. "Riza..."

She paused again, unsettled. He was starting to scare her... some part of him knew that, but maybe she _should_ be scared. She should get out while she still can...

"Shh..." she soothed again, her other hand cupping his cold, half-numb face, "I think it's just the drugs, Roy... You're just having a bad reaction to having so much morphine in your system... it's okay..."

He didn't believe her. He had to get out of here. _She_ had to get out. He knew what that man was capable of and Roy was suddenly much more afraid for Hawkeye's safety than for his own.

"Hughes will be here soon, alright? I'll have him tell the nurse to lower the dosage..."

Kimbley liked hearing women scream... he liked to hurt them. _Oh god, Riza, run..._ If he found her here, he'd kill her as he'd promised he would back in the office. He was already killing Havoc, then he'd kill Hawkeye... and then he'd kill Maes and Ed and... He was so dangerous. He was insane and so cruel.

Like that time in Ishbal—one of the many, _many_ times that Kimbley had proved himself to be a hateful, deplorable human being...

_..."I can't do it."_

"_It's your mess, you clean it up," Kimbley said carelessly, cleaning his nails with a pocket-knife. Kimbley's nails were always scrupulously cleaned and trimmed. He was very proud of his powerful, long-fingered hands and kept them well manicured even in these harsh deserts. The alchemic tattoos on the palms of his hands only increased the terrible strength and beauty of those magnificent hands._

"_I can't. I _cannot_," Roy said again, closer to tears than he'd ever allowed himself to become since arriving in this parched, hellish country, "Please, just do this for me."_

"_Hey, I'm not your maid."_

"_Please!"_

_Kimbley sighed, and glanced down at the two bodies heaped on the floor—a man and a woman. Allies. Selfless doctors who were just trying to do right in a time and place where everything was so wrong. They had been lying there for over an hour and the blood that puddled around them had congealed into a pulpy, sticky slime that would no doubt permanently stain the floor. The woman's cold hand still held a bloodied picture of a little girl. Probably their daughter. _

_Roy's head reeled. He had just orphaned a little girl._

_He was still shaking from it, his heart and stomach both jittery with barely-suppressed hysteria. His trigger-finger tingled. His hands felt soiled. He hadn't thought that it would be this hard to kill these two people. Just two. Yet, somehow, the horror that filled him the second he squeezed that trigger was far more intense than being out in the field, taking lives by the dozen. Maybe it was because he had been standing so close to them when he killed them—so close that he could see their eyes widen as the bullets pierced them and could hear their final gasps before they fell still. _

_These bodies would not be consumed by fire. They wouldn't just magically disappear in a fiery blaze like the rest of Roy's victims. No, these had to be removed by hand and buried off-site. The floor had to be scrubbed and sanitized for the new, more obedient doctors that would be stationed here tomorrow._

_And Roy had to do it. He had to take away the bodies and clean everything up. Those were the orders. _

_Why, Roy wondered in the back of his giddy-with-terror mind, had he been able to kill these two human beings so swiftly, yet he'd been stalling for over an hour, going insane over the prospect of having to actually touch them and clean up the gore leaking from their cooling bodies?_

_Kimbley had returned to the scene about five minutes ago with a bottle of strong Ishbalan-made wine, claiming to be bored. He scarcely even looked at the bodies, as if the sight were completely unperturbing to him. He just seated himself on a table in the corner and watched Roy's mounting unease as if it were the most entertaining thing in the world._

_Every minute since his arrival, Roy had been trying to enlist him to the task of removing the bodies, because Roy just couldn't do it._

"_Please, _please_, Zolf..." he begged, desperate, "I just can't do this. I'll do anything for you if you just do this _one_ thing for me..."_

"_Anything?" Kimbley queried, eyebrow cocked with sudden interest as he uncorked the wine and took a generous swing straight from the bottle._

_Roy swallowed and nodded, even as that voice in the back of his mind screamed at him to just man up and move the bodies himself. He didn't like that look in Kimbley's eye._

_Kimbley leered, as he always did when he knew that he'd won—or was _about_ to win. "Okay. Fine. I'll clean up after you, but I'll take my payment up front."_

"_...W-what do you want?"_

_The Crimson Alchemist grinned, his lip curling in a challenging, vulgar smirk. And then, very simply, he told Roy exactly what he wanted from him._

_Roy almost laughed, his hysteria squirming toward the forefront of his brain. Surely he was joking... He couldn't possibly expect Roy to do that..._

_But Kimbley just continued to smile at him calmly, waiting for his offer to be accepted. He wasn't kidding, and the realization of that barreled into Roy like a wild animal, momentarily stealing both his breath and his tongue. _

_He wanted to turn away from Kimbley in revulsion for even suggesting such a thing, to tell him to go hire a whore if that's what he wanted... But Roy's cowardice stopped him from saying no. He had to think. Which task was really more terrible?_

_He looked back over at the bodies, his heart starting to beat hard again, returning to the dangerous tempo it had reached in those gut-wrenching seconds after he'd pulled the trigger. He imagined himself lifting the woman's corpse from the floor and throwing it over his shoulder and taking it outside... Because that would be better than what Kimbley was proposing, wouldn't it? Dragging those limp bodies outside and dumping them in a pit? Wouldn't that be less shameful? Wouldn't it?_

_The thought of her cold, dead skin brushing against him, though, was too gruesome to indulge in and he had to look away again, skin crawling. He shut his eyes tightly, hating himself. No. No, he couldn't do it. He couldn't touch them. Whether because they would taint him or because he was afraid that_ he_ might taint _them_ even further by laying his murderous hands on them, he didn't know; his head claimed the former, but his heart claimed the latter._

_He took a deep breath, inhaling the reek of congealed blood, voided bowels and gunpowder coming from the bodies. "...Fine," he whispered._

_Kimbley's eyes widened very slightly, as if in surprise. But then his grin deepened and a low, silky laugh rose up from him like a cloud of smoke. He handed Roy the bottle of wine. Roy took it without hesitation and downed half of the strong drink before handing it back, trying to draw strength from the alcohol._

_And then, in that room, right in front of the bodies of his fallen allies—allies that he himself had murdered—right in front of the photograph of the orphaned little girl who didn't even know she was orphaned yet... Roy went down on his knees and lost the last shred of innocence that lived within him._

Roy reopened his eyes to the dimness of the room, that memory and the taste of semen scurrying back into the deepest recesses of his mind, already half-forgotten in the dual haze of injury and painkillers.

"—wrong, Roy? Are you in pain?" Hawkeye asked, her tense voice piercing though the half-hallucinated, half-dreamed memory.

When he didn't answer her, just continued to gasp and plead senselessly, her hand moved from his cheek down to the side of his neck, her fingers pressing against his carotid artery.

"Your heart is _racing_..." she breathed, sitting back a little, "Sir, you need to calm down."

_Please_... he mouthed silently, hearing her, but not really processing the words.

So many things happened in Ishbal. So many terrible things. So many innocent—yes, _innocent_!—lives lost at Roy's own hand.

Roy's mind wandered again, Hawkeye's soothing words becoming nothing more than senseless murmuring in the background. Memories flooded his drowning mind with a new wave of violent, bloody, sickening images, as if his growing terror were unearthing every horrible thing that Kimbley had ever done to him.

He couldn't even speak. He couldn't move. He was in a cocoon of darkness and suddenly Hawkeye was no longer at his side. He wanted to call her, but his vocal chords wouldn't obey him and all he could voice was a low wheeze of exhausted distress.

"—hallucinating, sir..." Hawkeye was saying somewhere near the door, talking softly, but urgently, to a tall silhouette that Roy could only barely see. "He keeps mumbling about Ishbal and Kimbley. I _really_ don't like the amount of drugs they've put him on. I think it's doing more harm than good to keep him tranquilized like this."

The silhouette murmured something in return, his low voice sounding almost abashed. Was it Maes?

"It can't just be the blood loss. He's _delirious_, sir. Just look at him."

Roy blinked, trying to clear his eyes and his head. Both figures looked over at him, alerted by his movement, and the tall shadow came near.

"Roy, are you with us...?"

Yes. Yes, it was Maes.

"Maes..." he tried to say, but his dry throat gave up little more than a whisper.

"I'm here."

Roy wanted to tell him, wanted to explain the danger to him, but it was just so _hard_. Maes had to get out of here. He had to take Riza and just _go_. They had to keep each other safe from the grinning madman in the shadows, for who knew when he'd show up and blow them to pieces, just because he could.

"Hughes, he's _scared_, can't you see that?" Hawkeye pressed gently, "The nurses say he's been like this all night. Ask them to lower the morphine dosage... don't you think the cuff is enough to keep him here? He's injured—even worse than he was before—he's not going to be able to get up, no matter how much he wants to."

"...Yes, fine. I'll tell them," Maes agreed after a sad pause. "Just... just stay with him for a while, would you?"

"Sir."

Maes' shadow grunted in thanks, then leaned down a little closer. "I need to go check on Havoc, but then I'll come back, okay?"

Roy couldn't say anything and so didn't try. He just closed his eyes again, feeling a little safer with Maes so near, in spite of the danger lurking around them.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Alphonse looked up as Ed gave a particularly loud snore and rolled over, flinging one arm down over the side of Mustang's couch. His automail hand bumped into the stack of books he'd been going through before he fell asleep and sent the tomes toppling to the floor in a miniature landslide of paper and cardboard.

Exhausted from not sleeping much the night before and from his emotional fatigue, Ed had finally fallen asleep about an hour before sunrise, physically unable to keep reading. Al did not begrudge him his rest and just continued researching without him, letting him sleep while he could.

It had been a very long night.

After Al had drawn out the tiny—yet impossibly intricate—circle that Kimbley had tattooed on Havoc's thigh with what looked to be his own blood mixed in with the ink, he and Ed both searched doggedly through all of the books that Scieszka had brought over to Mustang's apartment, looking for any similar arrays. They'd found it without too much trouble and were quickly able to identify its properties.

All of the information that they needed to help Havoc was right here. Ed and Al had stumbled upon a solution almost immediately, but it wasn't anywhere near being the solution that they wanted. Still, as much as they searched, the same answer kept popping up time and again.

The answer was deceptively simple: Kimbley had to leave Havoc's body.

That was obvious.

The only problem was he had to do it of his own free will. There was no way, according to their research, to force his soul to vacate Havoc's body without banishing them both. Alphonse had discovered in the early hours of the morning that it wasn't just that Kimbley had bound himself to Havoc's body... he had also, in a sense, bound their souls _together_. Havoc's soul was his hostage and, while he didn't really have complete control over it, he still had the power to kill them both at the slightest whim... and there was nothing that anyone could do about it.

In spite of being imprisoned, strapped down to a hospital bed, Kimbley really did still have the advantage.

Alphonse sighed and closed the book he'd been browsing through, knowing that the facts wouldn't change no matter how many times he read them over again. Havoc's life was still in Kimbley's hands, and all the rest of them could do was stand and watch.

Still, they couldn't give up just yet. Once Ed awoke, he and Al would go back to the hospital and do the only thing that they could: try to convince Kimbley to release Havoc.

...The very notion sounded ridiculous, even to Al's optimistic mind. There was no way that Kimbley was just going to let go and allow himself to fade away into nothingness when he had absolutely nothing to gain from it and everything to lose. If Kimbley let go, he would die. His soul had nowhere else to go. His own physical body had probably either been too badly ravaged by the transmutation to survive or had been allowed to burn in the prison fire while he took his new puppet out for a joyride. Either way, no one seemed to know what had become of it.

Then again, even if Kimbley _didn't_ leave Havoc, he was probably going to die anyway. They both were. The texts had been very clear about this kind of alchemy, saying that it should never be used for longer than a few days, since a living body can't handle the stress of supporting two souls—especially if those souls are constantly battling for dominance.

Havoc's unexplained fever was now explained; his over-wrought body must see the unfamiliar presence of Kimbley's soul as something completely foreign and dangerous, like a virus or an infection. Havoc's suffering body was only trying to protect itself by trying to sweat out this unknown invader, but in doing so it was causing itself more harm. It was dying.

_Havoc_ was dying.

And there was nothing that anyone, other than Kimbley, could to about it.

Al sighed and put the book aside. He should call Hawkeye and tell her... but, god, she was already so upset about everything else that was happening—she had practically been in tears over poor Mustang—that Al was afraid to break the news to her. Mustang was in a bad way... he'd been doing better when Hughes called to update them on his condition sometime around ten o'clock last night, but he could still die. And then the news about Havoc on top of that...

Al had never seen Hawkeye cry... and he hoped that he would never have to.

Well, he shouldn't worry about it now. Ed would probably wake up soon, and then they could go back to the hospital and do what they could and hope that Kimbley had enough goodness in him to let Havoc go...

That unlikely hope was all they had left to depend on.

Ed shifted again in the near silence of Mustang's living room, his sleep-slack lips mumbling a name.


	11. Dying

Riza closed the file on her lap and sat back in the rickety chair in defeat. The uneven chair legs tottered as she leaned back and she felt a tiny thrill of vertigo before quickly righting herself. The jostling almost sent the papers on her lap scattering to the floor, but she managed to grab the folders and clipboard before their contents could spill too much.

It wasn't even noon yet, and already it had been a long day.

She took a breath through her nose and let it out slowly from between her clenched teeth, refusing to acknowledge the tension headache whispering behind her left eye. She stole a furtive glance at her sleeping superior, noticing how uncomfortable he looked—even when unconscious—and shook her head. With some distraction and another cup of coffee, the pressure in her head would surely go away. She had no business complaining about a little headache—even silently—when Mustang was so badly injured.

She took another, deeper breath, and made herself open the file again.

All she did was look at files, it seemed. All she did was sit by Mustang's side, whether or not he even knew that she was there, and look over these damn files. Everyone was just looking over files or—in the case of the Elric brothers—books, because none of them had any idea what else they could do at this point.

After Mustang's dosage of drugs was reduced, his mind came down from its lurching hysteria and he quieted. He'd been asleep almost ever since. Hughes said that he'd woken up for a few minutes while Riza was out talking to the nurses, but he went back under before she came back. She desperately wanted to talk to him, to ask him what they should do from here. He always knew what to do. He was always so logical and fearless and he always led them in the right direction...

Riza shook herself, not allowing herself look over at him again to try and draw strength from his battered form. No one should be asking anything of him now. He asked more than enough of himself as it was—it was his greatest strength and his most deadly fault.

Instead, she made her eyes traverse the file that she had just gotten from one of the nurses. She had already read through Havoc's medical records and had questioned his doctors thoroughly about his condition, but they didn't really have any good news for her. Havoc was going downhill fast and the doctors couldn't even say why. The physicians didn't really know everything that was going on with Kimbley and the soul-binding, but they knew better than to ask too many questions of the tired, irate, grieving military officers who were milling around their hospital. They just promised to do all they could to make him more comfortable, but couldn't offer anything more hopeful than that.

Deeply upset by her comrade's failing health, Riza had put Havoc's file aside and requested another file from the nurses. It had taken over an hour to track it down, but as Riza had suspected, the file was here. All of the medical records for military personnel were usually kept here in Central Hospital, and this one was no exception. And so now she had it in her hands—a complete record of every check-up or medical procedure ever performed on Zolf J. Kimbley since his childhood.

She didn't know how much good it would do to look at it, but she couldn't just sit here and do nothing. All the other files of importance had been read time and again and she had no other way of helping in the investigation. All of them were equally helpless, but none of them could stop working, for fear they might miss something important that could make everything right again...

So far, Kimbley's file was mind-numbingly unspectacular, however. He was a colicky baby... he broke his arm falling out of a tree when he was six... had a bad fever when he was ten... Nothing that really struck Riza as useful in any way.

She blew a strand of hair out of her face with an exasperated puff and, once again, let the file fall shut. She was so tired of this. Moreover, she was just _tired_. She set the files down on the floor next to her chair and lowered the bedrail so that she could lean forward against the mattress in front of her, pillowing her head in her arms. One of her elbows pressed gently against Mustang's hip and his presence was reassuring. She let her eyes close, inhaling the scents of Mustang's sweat and the laundry detergent that clung to the bed linens.

She hated being without him. He was right here in front of her, and yet he wasn't really _here_. He was far away and just as helpless as she was. More so, even; at least she had her health. It wasn't that she needed him to take care of her... that certainly wasn't true. She could take care of herself far better than Mustang could take care of _him_self, even on a good day, and she still had energy left over to keep him out of trouble for the most part. She just wanted him to be there, to smile confidently and make some irritating remark...

But he couldn't

She had failed him. Everyone had. And now he was absent, and the threat of his absence becoming permanent still loomed on the horizon like dark clouds. Even if he continued to survive the massive hemorrhaging he had endured, his poor heart was surely getting tired from having to labor so long and so hard on the bare minimum of healthy blood... and if that didn't kill him, there was still the chance of him being taken by infection... Sure, he was improving now, but who could say where tomorrow would see him...?

She pressed herself a little closer to him, laying her forearm flush against his blanketed thigh, trying to find sleep—if only to stave off the depression that was beginning to settle on her like a layer of dust. She could not give in to that, so her only option was to ignore it.

In response to her movement, though, a hand came seemingly out of nowhere and rested upon her head, its slow, clumsy fingers gently tangling themselves in her hair.

Startled, she sat up quickly and nearly toppled backward in her unsturdy chair, but managed to right herself by clutching the bed sheets before the cantankerous bit of furniture could throw her.

"Hello," Mustang rasped, blinking at her in sleepy confusion, his free hand still hovering above the bedspread, suddenly finding itself bereft of her hair to stroke.

"...Hello, yourself," Riza rejoined demurely after recovering from her surprise, her heart swelling to see his eyes open and at least semi-alert, glassy though they were. "I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

"Dunno... Don't think so."

She smiled at him wanly and took his still-hovering hand in both of her own, a little disturbed by the slow, thick, grating sound of his voice but not about to let her spirits be dampened by it. "Are you in much pain?" she asked, lacing their fingers. His hand was freezing.

"Dunno..." he said again, lids drooping down a little further over his bloodshot eyes, until only a thin crescent of white showed from beneath the fan of his black lashes.

"You _don't know_ if you're in pain?"

He shook his head ponderously. "'M kinda numb... I can't feel my face..." he stopped and looked down at his hand, clasped in Riza's. "Or my fingertips..."

"Well, that's better than feeling pain, at least."

"Mmph..."

He fell silent and Riza didn't try to coax him into more conversation. She continued to hold his hand, though, trying to infuse his icy fingers with warmth. Perhaps she should run out and talk a nurse into bringing him another blanket... And perhaps a cup of water. His lips looked so dry, pale and scaly with dead skin. Then again, the doctors probably didn't want him drinking anything yet, so soon after major surgery. Maybe he could at least get some ice to suck on... Oh, but then that would make him even colder...

Mustang sighed and pulled his hand from hers, then reached forward and completely covered her face with it, squishing his palm firmly against her nose and half-obscuring her vision.

"Don't... look at me like that..." he warned her groggily, looking a little annoyed as she blinked at him from the slits between his splayed fingers.

She almost laughed at the absurdity of it, but instead she just arched her eyebrows calmly. "I'm not allowed to be concerned about you?" she asked him, her words muffled slightly against the heel of his palm pressing against her lips.

"No."

"Hm. Well I'm sorry, but it's beyond my control. I'll just have to worry less obtrusively."

He grunted, not pleased with her answer, but moved his hand away and let it fall limply back at his side.

"...You're doing much better, though, if you're wondering," she told him after a moment, wanting to take his hand again but wary of irritating him further. "Better than this morning, at least."

He gave another low, tired grunt and closed his eyes.

"You were hallucinating."

"Hm."

She wasn't sure if he remembered his nightmares or not and his wordless, monosyllabic murmur didn't betray anything. Riza couldn't understand everything that he'd been ranting about earlier, but she got the gist of it. She didn't need details. She could practically taste the fear and hatred when he'd moaned Kimbley's name.

_What did he make you do?_ she wanted to ask in horror, but she couldn't make herself do it. It was none of her business.

"'S Maes pissed?"

His heavy, dark eyelids were open again, watching her.

"...A little," she admitted, smirking. "I think he's more scared than anything, though. He had a little breakdown last night while you were in surgery and he's been pretty quiet since then..."

Mustang grimaced and she laughed gently, knowing how much he must hate the thought of someone crying over him.

"He snapped at Ed in the waiting room and they both ended up crying," she continued softly.

"...Ed? No..." he protested disbelievingly.

"He feels guilty about what happened, I'm sure. He's just as worried as the rest of us."

"...Told him it wasn't his fault..."

Riza slumped a little at the medicated dejection in her commander's voice and finally dared to reach forward and take his hand again. "We all told him that," she assured him, deciding not to tell him that Hughes had—whether intentionally or not—driven home Edward's sense of self-blame rather than try to avert it. "But you know Fullmetal; he never listens to reason... he and Alphonse are still at your apartment studying the alchemy that Kimbley did on Havoc. They said that they'd let us know if they've found anything by noon today."

Mustang was thoughtfully quiet for a moment. Then, "How's Havoc?"

She chewed her lip for a moment, briefly considered lying, then said, "...Not good, Roy."

Gently, she told him everything she knew about Havoc's health. His kidneys and liver were both beginning to fail. His fever was reaching new, deadlier heights every few hours. It was getting to the point that the doctors were discussing putting him in a bath of ice, if only to try and get his temperature down. His lungs were laboring and his heart was beating too fast... There were other, more complicated spouts of medical jargon in the files that Riza hadn't fully understood... but the fact of the matter was that time was running out for Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc.

With things progressing the way that they were, Havoc's doctors didn't expect him to live to see tomorrow, and time could be even shorter than that.

Mustang listened without comment as she spoke, closing his eyes momentarily as she detailed their comrade's grim prognosis.

"...I want to see him," he told her when she had finished. He looked over at the cuff binding him to the bed pointedly, flexing his captured hand.

"I'll talk to Hughes about it... but I'm not taking that cuff off without speaking to him first, Roy."

He exhaled harshly, fuzzily angry and exasperated, but didn't argue. He just jerked his free hand out of hers and turned his face away from her.

Riza chewed her lower lip, then cleared her throat and tried to make her tone as light as she could. "But Edward and Alphonse will surely find something to help... They both seemed pretty confident last night..."

Mustang didn't speak for several beats, but then he drew in a long, mournful-sounding breath and said, "'M tired, Riza... You don't... need t' stay with me..."

He was dismissing her. He was doing it quietly and politely, but he was still doing it. He didn't want her in here with him. Whether it was because he was upset that she refused to let him out of bed or because he really just wanted to be alone, she wasn't sure. She briefly entertained the idea of playing dumb and insisting on staying... but no, he had a right to be alone with his thoughts, and she had no doubt that he really was tired and needed his rest...

"Of course, sir..." she agreed softly, bowing her head. She bent to collect the files she'd put on the floor and stood. She gave him a stiff salute, her eyes downcast, and turned to leave.

"Keep me updated... 'bout Havoc..." he rasped to her back.

She turned and looked back at him, smiling sadly. "I will, Colonel," she said, and exited the room.

The lights in the hallway were brighter than those in the room and Riza had to blink a few times before her eyes could get accustomed to the change. The painful pressure in her skull made itself known again and she rubbed at her temple in irritation. Perhaps she should just go home... she wasn't really much use here anyway... Or maybe she should go back to the office and help Fuery with the paperwork that was piling up. Perhaps she'd send Fuery back over here to the hospital so that he and Breda could sit with Havoc, and hopefully be able to talk to him for a while before...

She clenched her jaw and the pressure behind her eye flared up into a full-blown headache. Damn Kimbley. Damn him for doing this horrible thing to all of them... She glared down at his medical file, staring at his name on the top of the page, silently cursing it. As her eyes traveled further down the page though, she stopped, her brow knitting curiously.

"...What?" she whispered to herself as she read further. When the realization of what she had just discovered hit her, her hand flew to her mouth and, as cruel and unspeakable as she knew it was, she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

The word "terminal", written in red at the bottom of the page, filled her with a sick, beastly kind of glee.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Jean reached out his hand and took the knob. The metal was cold and the worn-down stag's head that had been carved into the brass surface felt the same under his palm as it had when he was little. He smiled at the nostalgia of it, no longer surprised by how unnaturally vivid his constant dreaming was, and opened the door. _

_The soft scents of dust and polished wood reached his nose and he inhaled them deeply as he stepped into the room. It was exactly as he remembered it... but of course it was, since this was all in his head. Still, as Jean crossed the room and seated himself at the foot of the small, bright-blue sheeted bed, he let himself pretend that he really was back in his childhood bedroom. The lumpy bed beneath him was so familiar... so painfully comforting that he almost felt like crying._

_He laughed quietly to himself and ran his hand lovingly across the soft bedspread, knowing that he was being a little pathetic... but god, what he wouldn't give to really be in this room again right now instead of where he actually was: tied to a hospital bed in writhing agony, the soul of a madman invading his thoughts._

_He sighed and flopped backward onto the mattress, leaving his feet on the floor. He missed this room, this bed... he missed _life_. It had been days since Kimbley had taken everything from him. He had taken his freedom, his body, and—it was becoming increasingly apparent—his health. _

_The doctors were coming into the hospital room more frequently now, arguing quietly amongst themselves and trying to get answers from Jean's half-coherent body. Jean couldn't always hear what they were saying, but they didn't seem too happy. The garbled, staticy words he _could_ hear from them surrounded the concern of his fever, which had apparently been spiking pretty high since late yesterday afternoon. They kept talking about organ damage and infections... Jean half-heartedly tried to listen, but most of the time he was finding it hard to care much._

_He was either going to die or he wasn't, and worrying about it wasn't going to make a difference one way or another. He was exhausted—even here, in the confines of his mind—and he was in unimaginable pain each time he tried to insert himself consciously back into the real world and... to be honest... he sort of just wanted it to be over. Death didn't sound so bad at the moment, for it meant that this nightmare would end. _

_Not that he _wanted_ to die... it was just beginning to sound more appealing than the alternative—or, at least that's what he was trying to make himself believe. It would solve a lot of problems if he just kicked the bucket. If he was gone, Kimbley would be gone, too. Jean didn't really know much about his situation, but he knew that Kimbley's survival depended on his own. Then that would be a good thing, wouldn't it? If they both just died? Then everyone could stop worrying. They had enough to worry about as it was, what with Mustang's worsened injury and all..._

_Heymans had come in this morning to tell him how Mustang was doing. It seemed he was improving, but not out of the woods yet... He was pretty fucked up, Heymans said, and it was hard not to hear the blame in his voice. Jean knew that the blame wasn't directed toward him, but toward the demon within him... but, still... Maybe if he'd just tried harder, if he'd just fought Kimbley with a little more strength... he would have been able to keep Mustang from getting hurt..._

_Heymans was out there now, sitting beside Jean's bed, speaking occasionally. Jean knew that he should probably respond to him, but he hated seeing the look of fear and pity on his friend's face whenever he withstood his pain to try and speak. It would be better if he just stayed quiet and died silently..._

_Jean exhaled and tried not to think about it, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes traveled along the familiar cracks that spiderwebbed across the off-white surface. At night when he was young, with the moonlight shining in through his window, he'd often thought that those cracks seemed to form the sketchy outline of a lion rearing on its back legs. Now, in this dream-world the lion was looking down at him, tail flicking from side-to-side in inexplicable aggravation. Jean smiled at it uncertainly and it looked away with a haughty toss of its mane, apparently not wanting to be bothered._

_Jean shrugged to himself and let his gaze wander elsewhere, over to the bookcase filled with adventure stories and to the open window with the dusty old stuffed bear propped up in the sill. The bear used to have a name... something cutesy that Jean would probably be mortified about if he remembered it. Was it "Jakabear"? "Jakaboo"? Something silly like that... The corner of his mouth quirked a little, trying to recall and failing._

_He wondered if this house was even still standing... After his father died when he was sixteen, Jean and his mother had moved closer to the city to be with family and he hadn't seen these precious walls since. The absence of this room marked the end of Jean's childhood but he'd never_ really _missed it until now... at least, that's what he'd always told himself..._

"_This your room?"_

_Jean jumped a little at the sudden appearance of Kimbley's smooth voice, but covered his surprise with a low sigh. "When I was a kid."_

"_Hm."_

_Jean raised his head and looked over at his enemy, feeling a little violated that he, this evil man, was allowed into this most sacred of his childhood sanctuaries. He felt as if Kimbley was somehow corrupting everything in this little room just by being here, even though the room probably didn't even exist anymore. Only the memory of it remained... but somehow that made it even more precious._

_Kimbley moved over to the small bureau in the corner, eyeing the antique military paraphernalia that Jean had inherited from his grandfather: spent bullet shells... an old and dented harmonica... framed photographs of Major William Havoc and his company sitting astride their horses in the days before Amestris had done away with the cavalry. There was a fist-sized wooden statuette of a bucking stallion that gramps had carved during the beginning of the Dark War—said it was his good luck charm that had gotten him through many battles and tough scrapes. Jean still had the little horse somewhere in real life... probably in one of the boxes in his dorm that he'd never bothered to unpack..._

"_Looks like you were destined for military life," Kimbley mused, picking up the black-and-white photograph and squinting at the figures._

"_I guess," Jean mumbled, not really wanting to talk to him._

"_I suppose we have that much in common."_

_Jean looked at him, waiting for him to elaborate, but Kimbley didn't say anything more about it. Instead he put down the photo and cast his eyes around the room, taking it all in. Jean suddenly felt a little self-conscious having this full-grown man scrutinize his childhood bedroom. He wasn't sure why he cared what Kimbley thought and he knew that it was silly... but still, his mind kept going back to how invasive his presence was in this room, even though he wasn't doing anything destructive or even insulting. He was just looking around quietly, as curious and aloof as a cat in a new territory._

_And so Jean just watched his silent explorations without trying to stop him, but when Kimbley reached for the knob bedecking the narrow closet door, he spoke up._

"_I wouldn't open that, if I were you..." he cautioned with a smirk. "There _might_ be an alligator in there."_

"_...An alligator?" Kimbley asked, his eyebrow arched severely._

"_Yeah... I used to be afraid of alligators in my closet when I was young. Given the bat-shit craziness of this place, I wouldn't be surprised if my mind really put one in there."_

_Kimbley stared at him for a moment, then ducked his head and chuckled. It wasn't a mocking, crude laugh like Jean had half-expected... it was actually shockingly warm._

"_You get points for originality, I suppose," he said, shaking his head and moving away from the closet. "_My_ personal boogieman was more generic... a wolf that waited outside my window for me to fall asleep. The things kids imagine, huh?"_

_Jean propped himself up on his elbows, not sure of what to say. Kimbley was being... civil. Or, at least, he wasn't being a bastard at the moment. He was just speaking casually, as if he and Jean were friends having a normal conversation. The light tone of his voice invited a friendly kind of intimacy that Jean didn't know how to respond to._

_Kimbley had been acting a little strange since yesterday, when both of them had been so violently shoved into the waking agony of Jean's physical body. After they'd both recovered from their terrified shock of what they'd just been through, Kimbley had disappeared for hours. _

_And then, sometime before midnight, it had happened again. Everything went dark and the only thing that Jean could process was the pain and the sound of Kimbley screaming with him as he writhed on the bed. He vaguely remembered a nurse drawing a cool cloth across his brow, telling him to hold on, but other than that everything was a blur. That abrupt attack of unspeakable pain had lasted longer than the first one and it took both Jean and Kimbley a longer time to collect themselves in the wake of it._

_...And then, about two hours ago, it had happened _again_. Longer and more intensely than the first two times._

_Something was wrong and Jean had a feeling that Kimbley knew what. The madman had gone quiet, and when he did speak he sounded completely casual. There was no mocking, no declarations of hatred toward Mustang or anything that Jean had come to suspect from the monstrous man. _

_He seemed almost _human_... or maybe he was just as scared as Jean was and didn't know how else to seek comfort._

_Kimbley continued to pace around the room, hands clasped behind his back. He stopped in front of the room's one large window and peered out, the sunset glow from outside casting his face in a ghastly, red-orange light._

"_Okay, what's wrong with you?" Jean made himself ask finally, lowering himself back onto the bed and folding his arms behind his head._

"_Now that's an odd question, Lieutenant. According to you, there are a lot of things wrong with me... do you really want me to list them all?"_

"_Tsk. Jeez, I was just trying to be polite..."_

"_And what, praytell, has inspired you to bestow such politeness upon me?"_

"_Nothing. You just seem like something's wrong with you... You know, besides the obvious."_

_Kimbley rolled his eyes and looked over at him witheringly._

"_The obvious?"_

"_Yeah, you know, your murderous and psychotic tendencies. Did you have a traumatic childhood or something? Because_, damn_."_

_He chuckled, running his hand along the window ledge. "Oh, _everyone's_ had a traumatic childhood. Childhood_ is _traumatic. Anyone who says differently is either in denial or just wants their personal trauma to be more important than everyone else's."_

_Silence filled the air between them again as Kimbley continued to look out the window and Jean digested that little piece of philosophy. Kimbley's attention was drawn to the stuffed bear on the window ledge—"Jakabee", _that_ was its name!—and he picked it up, seating it in the palm of his left hand as he brought it up to eye-level, examining it._

"_We're dying," he sighed after a moment, turning from the bear to gift Jean with a startlingly serene smile._

_Jean swallowed past the imagined dryness of his mouth and closed his eyes. He wasn't surprised at all. He had known the facts already, but actually hearing them confirmed was a little bit of a blow "I figured... How long do we have?"_

"_Don't know. The alchemy was never meant to hold this long. I'm surprised we aren't dead already."_

"_Isn't there anything you can do?"_

_Kimbley didn't answer immediately. He looked back down at the bear as if trying to memorize every detail of it: the patchiness of its gray-brown fur, its missing eye, the torn ear... Then he shook his head as if trying to clear it and held the bear against his chest, out of his line of sight._

"_No," he answered finally._

_Jean cursed. "So, you went into this without even having a way back out of it? _Knowing_ that the alchemy wouldn't hold?"_

"_I don't need a way back out. Where would I go? My body's gone, remember?"_

_Hm. Jean had to admit that he had a point. He didn't remember much directly before or after Kimbley took him over, but he did recall one thing, just before Kimbley used his body to escape from the prison's compound..._

_Most of the memory was jerky and it faded in and out. In those first minutes after their alchemic union, Jean hadn't understood what was going on. Everything was dim and his mind was groggy as if he'd been drinking. Heavily. His hands moved of their own accord, clumsy and shaking, his fingers fumbling over a body sprawled on the floor. He rolled the body over onto its back, though he had no control over his own movements and didn't quite realize at that point that he was being manipulated like a puppet on strings._

_Jean hadn't recognized the body. It was a man. A prisoner. His hair was long and tangled, black and greasy like tar, and it clung to his emaciated face in thin, cobwebby strands. The man had looked sick, Jean remembered. So thin as to be almost skeletal. His wrists were bony, his hands so narrow that he had been able to slide one of them out of the wood and metal prison manacles that he'd been locked into. The palms of his hands had been tattooed with alchemic symbols and, as Jean watched with unfocused helplessness, something compelled him to take the man's hands—_Kimbley's_ hands—and press them against his own lifeless chest._

_The resulting explosion sent blood spattering across the dark, filthy floor of the prison cell—the body was completely pulverized in the blink of an eye._

_...So, yeah, Jean supposed that Kimbley was right... why would he need an exit plan if he had no body to return to?_

"_Why would you even do that to your own body...? Were you just covering your tracks, or what?" Jean asked, shuddering at the memory of Kimbley's gaunt, vacant body going to smoking pieces in front of him._

"_I didn't need it anymore."_

"_Of course you need it! You said yourself that you can't survive in me for much longer! You're killing us both!"_

"_That's the plan."_

"_...You _wanted_ to die?"_

"_Not really, no. But that doesn't change the facts."_

_Jean stared at him as he held the little stuffed bear closer, subconsciously tucking its soft head under his chin. Kimbley's face was not emaciated now, as it had been back in his prison cell, Jean suddenly realized. The Kimbley that Jean had seen then looked nothing like the figure before him now. This imagined body was a refection of Kimbley's soul that scarcely resembled the sack of bones that his real body had been before its untimely explosion. _This_ man looked strong and muscular, a phantom image of how he pictured himself... of how he had once looked in the days before he was sent to prison... _

"_You're sick." _

_The words left Jeans lips not as an accusation regarding this monster's mental evils, but as a breathless realization. "You were already dying, weren't you?"_

_Kimbley smirked again, in that condescending way that he had, but then he surprised Jean by actually answering. "I've been battling __chronic lymphocytic leukemia, if you must know."_

"_Oh," Jean said, lacking anything more intelligent._

"_It wasn't too bad before the war, but it's gotten pretty aggressive over the past year and I'm... tired of dealing with it. I wouldn't have had much longer anyway."_

_Jean blinked at him, slowly sitting upright. "Are you telling me that this," he gestured around them, his arms encompassing the entirety of this fluctuating nightmare, "all of _this_... is just an elaborate way for you to kill yourself?"_

"_Well, if you want to simplify it down to that..."_

_Jean gaped. "...What the fuck is_ wrong_ with you?"_

_"I didn't want to die in prison," he shrugged, "I saw an opportunity to get out and I took it. I'd easily take these few days on the outside over another year in that cell."_

_An incredulous laugh bubbled up from Jean's throat before he could stop himself. "Well you fucked that right up, didn't you? You've spent most of your time 'on the outside' still being imprisoned, one way or another!" He shook his head. "God, you fucking psycho. If you had just left Mustang alone, you would have been home free._

_"I have no regrets. I've spent many-a-night fantasizing about hurting him like this. I just wish I could have used my alchemy on him... but that would have been a little conspicuous, I think. Pity he didn't die... Ah well, there's still a chance, right?"_

_Jean looked away from him in disgust. For a moment there, he had almost felt sorry for the bastard... He was dying. He had leukemia, and had apparently had it for years now. Even before Ishbal. But something like that would surely be underlined in red in his medical records... how could the military send him to Ishbal in the first place, knowing of his illness...? How could they send a cancer patient to war? Then again, powerful State Alchemists were hard to come by, and they had been a hot commodity in those days. As long as Kimbley was well enough to do his job, he was obligated to do it. _

_Perhaps that's why he had been so... energetic... in his war duties; death meant nothing to him, because he was already caught in the beginning stages of it. Or maybe it was just his desperate way to numb himself to the eventuality of his own looming demise..._

_But no, this man didn't deserve sympathy. Jean refused to feel sorry for him. He deserved his fate. Being sick does not give a person the right to dole out death like party favors._

_"I'm glad that Mustang helped put you in prison," Jean said to him quietly, "You deserve to die alone, locked in a cell."_

_"And Mustang deserves it just as much."_

_Jean bit his tongue to hold back a retort. It always came back to this. Kimbley seemed bent on convincing Jean of how completely evil Mustang was. Kimbley never denied that he himself was a monster, just insisted that Jean see his commander in the same light._

_"I did everything for that man," Kimbley continued when Jean didn't say anything. "He wouldn't have survived in Ishbal without me. And what thanks did I get...?"_

_Jean ignored him, rolling over onto his side so that his back was to the madman. _

_Kimbley sighed, "Blind as a bat..." and then Jean heard the soft, scuttling sound of him climbing out the window, out into whatever world Jean's mind had created beyond this little room. _

_Jean listened for a bit longer to be sure that he was gone, then rolled back over and sat up. The stuffed bear was sitting on the floor forlornly, slumped directly in the center of the rectangle of orangey light streaming in through the open window. Jean slid off of the bed and seated himself on the floor beside it before picking it up._

_And then, without really knowing why—but there were so _many_ reasons why—Jean pressed his face against the bear's soft head suddenly found himself fighting tears. God, he just wanted to go home..._

_On the other side of the room, the closet door opened slowly, one massive, green claw appearing in the widening crack._

"_Look, I'm r-really not in the mood," Jean wept angrily, wiping his eyes on the back of his arm. _

_And with an odd air of shame, the closet door snapped shut again and the alligator within remained sulkily silent as Jean tried to get a hold of himself. He sniffed back his tears and got to his feet, angry at himself for giving in to his grief. He was scared. He didn't want to die, but he had to accept it... crying about it wasn't going to make any difference. He had to face his fears._

_He looked back over at the closet door, then giggled to himself a little hysterically and wiped his eyes again. Inspired, he approached the door and jerked it open, expecting a huge, blood-stained reptile to lie in the darkness beyond, the embodiment of Jean's oldest and most primal fears._

_What he saw when he looked down, however, was decidedly not an alligator. _

_It was a boy. Young—perhaps seven or eight—with a smudge of dirt on his freckled cheek._

"_Aww..." he lamented, running a hand through his wild, reddish-brown hair, "You found me already? Darn you, Jean!"_

"_Heymans..." Jean breathed, his heart clenching and his eyes filling again._

"_Now it's your turn to hide!" the boy that Jean had once known ordered, and started to close the closet door again._

"_Wait!" Jean cried, but the door slammed shut before he could stop it. "Heymans, _wait_!"_

_He grabbed the handle and wrenched it open again, but only darkness greeted him, echoing back to him the abrupt sound of his own helpless sob. Heymans was gone. Everyone was gone..._

_Jean stood in the shadowed doorway, still holding the bear, having never felt so alone in his life._

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Jean hadn't really come out of himself and spoken at all today, but Heymans tried not to be discouraged by that. As long as Jean wasn't crying out in agony, he supposed that he could hardly complain... Just this morning, Jean had already had two separate attacks of... something... that made his whole body clench and shudder as he threw his head back against the pillow and screamed helplessly.

The doctors didn't know what was happening and whatever painkillers Jean had been pumped with didn't seem to have any effect... After a few minutes, though, Jean had quieted down again. That was good, right? At least the pain didn't seem to be constant... or, perhaps Jean just couldn't always react to it...

Heymans scrubbed his face with his hands, the book he'd been trying to read lying half-forgotten on the floor, its pages rumpled and creased carelessly. The worst part of all of this was not knowing. Heymans didn't know if Jean's pain _was_ continuous, or if he was being tortured by his captor... He didn't even know if Jean could hear him when he tried to encourage him or assured him that Mustang was doing better. He just wanted to comfort Jean, but he didn't know how...

"Jean?" he tried for perhaps the hundredth time in the past few hours, "Can you hear me? Jean?"

Jean, of course, didn't respond. Heymans sat back in disappointment. He'd been talking to Jean all morning, telling him about Mustang's health and generally just trying to get him to respond... but he wasn't. In spite of himself, Heymans' hope was starting to flag. Jean was so pale now, his skin turning a disturbingly yellowish shade of grey-white, jaundiced by his failing liver. His fever was making him perspire heavily and his hospital gown was completely soaked through with the moisture. The thin cloth clung tightly to his torso and arms, the fabric so wet that it was practically translucent, fitting on him like a second skin that revealed all too vividly how much of a struggle it was becoming for his muscular chest to rise and fall with breath.

He didn't have long the doctors said, and Heymans—damning himself for even thinking it—was starting to believe them. Heymans was just going to sit here helplessly and watch his friend die, because there was nothing else that he _could_ do.

The door to the hospital room opened. They'd decided not to keep it locked anymore, so that the doctors and nurses could have immediate and unhindered access. Not that Kimbley/Jean would be able to get very far even if he did manage to get out of his restraints. Heymans had always thought that keeping the door locked was unnecessary, but Hughes really didn't seem to favor being questioned these days.

Speak of the devil, Hughes stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He leaned against it for a moment, gazing at Jean's unconscious body, then turned to Heymans.

"Ed and Al called a while ago. They should be here any second. I don't know what they found—if anything—but they want to talk to Kimbley."

"Did you need me to leave?"

"No, no... you can stay. I'm sure they won't mind."

There was a short silence.

"Mustang still doing okay?" Heymans asked.

Hughes shrugged. "As well as can be expected. Hawkeye spoke with him for a bit, but then he kicked her out, saying that he was tired. He's asleep now and she's back at the office. She said she'll send Fuery back over this way soon, to see Havoc."

"...Fuery's pretty freaked out by all of this," he confided to Hughes quietly, "I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't come. Poor kid."

Hughes made a sympathetic sound and then the two of them went quiet again, listening to Havoc's wet, uneven breathing.

When a tentative knock came at the door a few minutes later, both of the conscious soldiers jumped, startled. But then Hughes recovered himself and beseeched the knocker to enter, already knowing who it was.

Unsurprisingly, Edward and Alphonse appeared as the door opened. Al came in and sketched a little bow to both Heymans and Hughes, but Ed's entrance was more cautions. He slinked into the room nervously, purposefully keeping his eyes averted from Hughes'. Hughes seemed a little grieved by that, but didn't say anything about it. Instead he cleared his throat and addressed the young alchemists.

"Good afternoon, boys. I hope that you have some good news for us."

Neither of the Elrics said anything for a moment, as if each of them were waiting for the other to speak first and Heymans felt a little pang of intensified anxiety. Ed was a loud-mouthed brat who rarely hesitated to denounce his knowledge on any subject, especially when the information was vital. His nervous silence now was not only odd, but a little disheartening.

Finally, though, with a sympathetic look at his brother, Alphonse spoke up.

"We may have found a way to fix Havoc..." he began tentatively and, even though Heymans heard the caution and borderline sadness in Alphonse's voice, his heart still gave a joyous leap as it was hit with a renewed sense of hope. Yes! He knew those brilliant boys would find something!

"But Kimbley has to do it," Edward added quickly, then winced as he saw Heymans' face fall again from its brief moment of relieved elation.

"What...?"

"Kimbley has to willingly let him go as we destroy the circle, otherwise both of their souls could be banished."

"At this point, Havoc's body probably doesn't really know which soul is which, so it's already trying to get rid of both of them like an infection... that's why he's so sick," Al rejoined, desperate to make Heymans understand, "That circle may very well be the only thing that's been keeping the souls grounded... if we removed it, they'd probably both die instantly..."

"So, what does that mean?" Heymans demanded, "You're just going to... ask Kimbley to let Havoc go? That's insane!"

"Hey, do you have any better ideas?" Ed barked at him, suddenly incensed. "Look, we know it sounds stupid, but it's our _only chance_, okay?"

"The kid's right, you know," came an eerie voice.

All eyes turned to the hospital bed at hearing those words. Havoc's red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes were open, looking back at them and a thin smile played on his dry, powder-white lips.

"It _is_ Havoc's only chance," Kimbley continued, eyeing Edward with an unhealthy interest that almost made Heymans want to stand between them.

"Well..." Ed began, then stopped and swallowed, "Well, what do you think...?

"I think you're an idiot for even asking," the demon replied honestly.

"You're going to die no matter what you do!" Ed exploded, finding his nerve in response to the insult, "It's too late for you, Kimbley, but you can still help us save Havoc! What do you have to lose by letting him go?"

"What do I have to _gain_ by letting him go?"

"...My respect," Ed said seriously, drawing himself up to his full—albeit not very impressive—height.

Kimbley stared at Ed for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed throatily, genuinely amused by the sincerity in the kid's voice.

"Oh... Oh, that's rich," he chuckled, "You sound just like Mustang, you poor thing, thinking that your opinion matters to me. What makes you think I'd _want_ your respect? What value could it possibly have to me?"

Ed didn't seem to have a good answer for that. He just glared at Kimbley with the full force of his teenage rage and clenched his fists at his side.

"We can make it worth your while," Hughes offered suddenly, resting a calming had on Ed's shoulder.

"I'm dying. And soon. Unless you can somehow change that, you have nothing that I want or need."

"I can have you taken outside for a few hours. I'll arrange it with the doctors. You've been behind bars for a long time... surely you'd appreciate a little fresh air...?"

"...No. Not good enough. I need more than that."

"I can buy you a woman..." Hughes proposed again.

"Nope."

"...Or a man."

Kimbley laughed again, seeming to enjoy this game.

"As much as I appreciate how virile you apparently think I am, I doubt I'm up to any sort of strenuous activity anymore at this point."

Hughes slowly took off his spectacles and started polishing the lenses with a handkerchief, trying to keep his cool. "Then what do you want? Make your own offer."

Kimbley sighed and looked heavenward for a moment thoughtfully. "You won't like it..." he warned.

"Tell me."

He lowered his gaze again and looked at Hughes levelly. "Let me kill Mustang and you can have Havoc. A life for a life. I think that's fair. Besides, unless I'm mistaken, Mustang already has one foot in the grave. I'd probably be doing him a favor."

"No," Hughes rasped quickly, sliding his glasses back onto his nose. "No deal."

"Why not? He deserves death more than this fine man that I'm imposing on... Jean Havoc may not be a war hero of Ishbal, but he's practically a saint compared to his commanding officer. Havoc never slaughtered the innocent. And even if he had, he wouldn't have enjoyed it."

"You're suggesting that Mustang _liked_ killing people in Ishbal?" Ed interjected with a disbelieving cackle. "Hey, I may not know everything about his past, but I know that the uprising was Hell for him... he still isn't over it, and you think he _enjoyed_ it?"

Heymans and Hughes both beamed at the young man, proud of him for valiantly defending a man who he often claimed to hate with a passion. Everyone knew that he didn't really hate Mustang—though, at times, it was clear that he _did_ seriously dislike him—and to see him so stoically rallying against Mustang's enemy lit a fire of brotherly love in Heymans' heart.

"You didn't see his face on the battlefield. I know bloodlust when I see it, believe me. And why else would he volunteer to kill his own allies?"

"He never volunteered to—" Hughes began indignantly, but Kimbley cut him off.

"Oh, that's right. Havoc here did mention something about him spreading the lie that he was _ordered_ to kill those doctors..."

"What are you talking about?" Ed protested, "He _was_ ordered! We've..." He stopped for a beat and swallowed. "...We've forgiven him for that."

"Wrong, little one. That assignment was originally for someone else, but Mustang fucked up on a raid the week before and wanted to prove himself to our superiors, so he volunteered to do it."

Heymans' heart, which had been burning with pride only moments before, turned icy and plummeted down into his stomach. He was lying... _Surely_ he was lying...

"Oh, come on," Kimbley sniggered, rolling his eyes at them, "Did you _really_ think the Brass would have ordered a State Alchemist to do such a simple task as shoot two unarmed doctors? Please. We had more important things to do. Mustang just wanted to earn some favorable points with the higher-ups."

"I... I don't believe you," Ed spat, "You'd say anything to turn us against him, I bet."

"Oh, and the icing on the cake?" the Crimson Alchemist smiled, "He had a little panic-attack after he did the deed and sucked my cock so that I would get rid of the bodies for him! Ha! Priceless!"

"He's not going to be any help to us right now, boys," Hughes said quickly, taking them both by the shoulder and steering them both toward the door. "Let's go."

Neither boy protested the wisdom of Hughes' forced evacuation. Heymans caught a glimpse of Ed's face before they exited the room, though. He looked ill.

"You son of a bitch," Heymans seethed when the door closed, "Do you have any idea how cruel that was? Those doctors were their best friend's parents!"

Kimbley blinked in surprise, then a slow, insane grin stretched his mouth into something unspeakable. "...Oh dear, how _awful_..."

"They're just kids, how can you tell them such horrible lies? You sick freak."

"Better to start them when they're young... that way, the blow won't be quite so devastating when they realize that the world is just a festering hellhole full of shits like me who have the audacity to tell the truth."

Heymans just gritted his teeth and averted his gaze, too livid to even look at the fucker who was wearing the face of his best friend.

Kimbley was lying. He was a liar and a coward and Mustang could never sink to that level. Ever.

_Ever._

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((A/N: This story is going on a bit longer than I'd anticipated, but I THINK it may come to a close in 2-3 more chapters, for those of you who wanted to know. On a random side-note, I named Havoc's teddy bear after my adorable cat, Jakabee, because he's freakin' awesome and just happened to be sleeping next to me when I wrote that part... I'm lame, I know.))


	12. Altered Perception

Ed's heart was beating hard. It was beating so hard that he could actually feel his blood flowing with every pounding gush, dispersing across his cheeks and the palm of his hand.

He wanted to be angry. He wanted to go back in that room and beat the shit out of Kimbley, momentarily not thinking of how that would hurt Havoc as well. Maybe Ed _was_ angry, somewhere in the back of his brain... but as Hughes dragged him and Al out into the hallway, all he could really feel was the thick buzz of complete shock that felt as if it had settled in the back of his throat, like a wad of phlegm that he wanted to cough up.

Hughes snapped the door shut behind them, his face livid.

"That man is sick," he said with a strangely apologetic kind of rage. "Absolutely _sick_. I can't believe he would even make up something so... vulgar. I'm sorry that you had to hear that, boys."

Ed shrugged, trying to swallow the sticky discomfort in his throat. "It's not your fault that he has issues..."

"Yeah..." he sighed, raking an irate hand through his hair. "I guess you can try to talk to him again later... maybe we can still convince him to release Havoc..."

Hughes didn't sound very confident in that, but Ed nodded anyway. He could be right... maybe Kimbley would cave after he'd had some time to think it over... maybe he'd take one of Hughes' offers and decide that he'd rather spend his last moments out in the sunshine rather than dragging Havoc down with him...

"...Why _would_ a State Alchemist be ordered to kill two unarmed doctors?" Al asked suddenly. He wasn't looking at Ed or Hughes, but staring blankly down the corridor, watching a blonde nurse gather supplies from a cabinet and then disappear further down the hall.

"_Alphonse..._" Ed hissed.

Hughes stared at him for a beat without speaking, lips parted, as if he didn't quite know what to say to that. "You..." he managed finally, his voice a little shaky with incredulity. "You don't actually _believe_ what that lunatic said, do you...?"

"What? No, of course not...!" Al assured him, turning to face them quickly, "I was just... wondering why..."

But there was a doubt in Al's voice that Edward couldn't ignore and he felt a small pang of queasiness. What if Mustang really _had_ done those things that Kimbley said? What if he'd enjoyed killing on the battlefield? What if he really had willingly killed Winry's mom and dad? What if he'd really paid Kimbley to get rid of their bodies by...

No. No way. Mustang would—_could_—never do any of those things. As much of an asshole as he could be sometimes, he was still a respectable man and not the monster that he was sometimes painted as. Ed knew that. Yes, he had killed. Yes, he had sinned... but he had paid for it. He was surely _still_ paying for it, like Ed and Al were paying for their own sins... though _his_ scars weren't nearly as visible as theirs. True, he was a secretive man... and a manipulative man... and... and maybe he did lie sometimes...

Ed jerked on the brake of that train of thought and brought it to a screeching halt. Fine. Maybe Mustang wasn't always kind or honest. So what? Ed wasn't either. The long and short of it was that Kimbley was an animal who just wanted to drag Mustang's name through the mud. That was all.

"I trust Mustang," Ed told his brother firmly, perhaps a little more firmly than he should have.

Al bowed his head and said nothing.

Hughes smiled wanly at them both, looking both touched and deeply sad.

A sharp, thought-freezing shriek abruptly sounded from behind the closed door of Havoc's hospital room. Hughes jumped and whipped around, his jaw tightening.

"Oh, not again..." he whispered to himself, flinging the door open and barging back into the room.

Ed and Al stayed where they were, not sure whether or not to go after him, but when a second scream followed fast on the heels of the first, Ed dared to step into the doorway.

Havoc's whole body was rigid, his muscles coiled into tight knots as he dragged in a hitched, choking gasp and screamed like a dying animal—half bellow, half screech. The sound was unlike anything Ed had ever heard. It seemed to resonate against Ed's ribcage, wrapping around his lungs and heart and sucking all warmth from them. It was a haunting, unearthly sound, but it took several seconds for Ed to realize what was so alien about it.

It wasn't the sound of one person screaming, but two. Havoc's voice was grating and raw with pain, a guttural, physical expression of agony... and below that undulating cry was another voice that sounded like it came from the very soul—which it did. Kimbley's lower, smoother cry was raised alongside Havoc's and their voices mingled into a kind of panicked, vibrating harmony that might have been almost beautiful if it weren't so completely terrifying.

Breda was on his feet at Havoc's side. One of his hands was locked with Havoc's own restrained hand, and they were gripping each other so hard that Ed was almost afraid that they'd break each other's fingers. Breda's other hand hovered over him uncertainly—lighting to touch Havoc's face or arm, smoothing his sweaty blond hair away from his wide, unseeing eyes—frantically wanting to help him, but knowing that there was nothing he could do.

"Hang on, Jean..." he pleaded brokenly, "Just a little longer. It'll stop in a minute..."

Hughes stood near Breda with one arm wrapped around him and gripped both his shoulders hard. He made no attempts to soothe Havoc, knowing—as even Ed knew, standing helpless in the doorway—that there wasn't much point in trying to comfort him. It was clear that he was beyond comfort, and so Hughes opted to focus his attentions on the other suffering man in the room, since he, at least, could actually be aided a little by the caring contact.

Hughes raised his head and saw Ed standing there. _Close the door_, he mouthed, covertly tilting his head to tell him to go back out into the hallway. Ed licked his dry lips and nodded, backing out of the doorway and pulling the door shut on yet another of Havoc's screams. He closed his eyes tightly and leaned his forehead against the door. He hated this. All of this. Everyone was suffering so much, all because of an escaped convict with a grudge and there was nothing that Ed could do to fix it.

Life on the road—just Ed and Al, traveling on their own—was so much easier than being here and worrying about other people. Ed only wanted to worry about Alphonse and, to a much lesser extent, himself. He wanted to push all these people away and never look back. None of this was his problem. It had nothing to do with him... yet he couldn't turn his back on any of them. Outside of Winry and Aunt Pinako, this was the only family that he and Al had, as lame as that sounded. These people were a huge part of their lives whether they liked it or not, and Ed did care for them all...

But damn... right now he just wanted to turn those feelings off. He didn't want to care for them, or worry about them, or grieve for them. He wanted them to mean nothing to him, as they once had, when he'd first joined the military. But he was older now, and he'd spent time with these people, and he _loved_ them...

"Havoc's gonna die," Ed said quietly. "Kimbley's never going to listen to us. He has no reason to..."

Ed felt his brother's heavy hands come to a rest on his slumped shoulders. "Maybe we should see if we can talk to Mustang..." he replied softly, though something in his tone suggested that he didn't really want to see the colonel right now. "He probably knows more about Kimbley than anyone else... he might know how to bribe him into leaving Havoc."

Ed thought that over for a moment, then shook his head mournfully. "...I don't want to bother him... I don't even know if he'd be coherent enough to answer us clearly..."

"The least we can do is try, Brother."

"Yeah, but..." Ed half-conceded, raising his head a little and looking at him over his shoulder.

"And I know that you really want to see him, even if he can't help."

A little struck by that but knowing that there was no point in trying to deny it, Ed swallowed. "I'll ask Hughes if we can go see him..." he agreed finally, "But he might not let me, because of yesterday..."

"Hughes has more important things to do right now than be distracted by this..." Al said gently, with a significant nod toward the door. "Besides, the colonel is your commanding officer, you don't need Hughes' permission to go see him... and you and I both know that you wouldn't let anything happen to him again..."

"...I know. You're right. You're always right, Al," Ed smirked bitterly. "Come on, let's go... We aren't much use just standing here, I guess."

And so the two of them walked away from the door behind which three of their comrades wrestled with one untouchable enemy. Ed allowed himself to relax a little once he was out of earshot of Havoc's cries, but the deep fearful sadness that was defiantly settled amongst his entrails would not be shifted and only increased as he and Al made their way downstairs toward the trauma ward. It didn't take long for them to find a nurse who could tell them which room Mustang had been put into.

It wasn't the same room that he had been in before, when he'd first gotten stabbed, but it was very similar, as all these rooms were—identical cells in a massive beehive of medical care. Mustang's bed was on the far side of the room, beneath the curtained window. There was another bed closer to the door, but it was empty and neatly made, a forlorn-looking wheelchair sitting at the foot of it. As Ed stepped into the dim, silent room, he wondered what had happened to the person who had last occupied that bed and that wheelchair. Had they gotten well again? Had they been sent home with a clean bill of health? Or had they succumbed to their injuries and slipped away while family members looked on and wept? How many people had died in that bed?

He forced himself forward, suddenly nervous as they approached Mustang's bed. The colonel was deeply asleep. Someone—a nurse, probably—had wedged a soft pillow against his lower back so that he could lie partially on his side in an attempt to make him more comfortable. One of his arms rested against his side, his hand lying across his abdomen limply, as if even his subconscious was trying to shield his injury from further hurts. His other arm was bent so that his hand was curled up near his face, his colorless, parted lips nearly brushing against the base of his thumb. He looked like a child, laying like that... the very antithesis of a military leader who usually only seemed to sleep at his desk, slumped behind a stack of unfinished paperwork.

As Ed looked at him, a glint of steel caught his eye. There was a cuff secured around Mustang's wrist, tethering him securely to the bed. For some reason that Ed couldn't really explain, the sight nauseated him a little. He had overheard Hughes talking to Hawkeye in the waiting room yesterday about cuffing Mustang to the bed so that he didn't try to get up and hurt himself, but Ed had honestly thought that he'd been joking. Clearly, though, he hadn't been.

What kind of person would handcuff his half-dead best friend to a hospital bed?

What kind of person was Maes Hughes _really_?

Ed had thought that he knew Hughes pretty well... but he never would have expected this from him. He sighed and tried to put it from his mind, instead focusing on the task at hand as Alphonse watched over his shoulder.

"Colonel?"

Ed's soft voice seemed crassly loud in the quiet chamber, but Mustang didn't give the slightest reaction to it. He didn't stir at all, too profoundly immersed in his injured, narcotized slumber to pay any mind to the two young men standing beside him. Maybe they should just leave and let him sleep. He needed his sleep to heal, didn't he? There was no point in disturbing his rest to talk about how futile the battle against Kimbley had become... there was no need to remind him how close to death his friend was, was there?

...But if there was a chance, any chance at all that Mustang could help Havoc, shouldn't they try? Mustang had already proven how dedicated he was to Havoc by risking his already-endangered life in an attempt to find out how to save him, and Ed knew the man well enough to be confident that he would want to do everything possible... He would want to help.

Hesitantly, Ed reached out to touch Mustang's face, but then pulled his hand back again before his fingers could actually brush his sleeping cheek. Mom had often awoken Ed and Al in the mornings by cupping their cheeks or brushing their reckless bed-head out of their faces. Ed remembered that vividly, how calming and comforting it had been to be woken up like that... but he and Mustang weren't close enough for him to attempt that same peaceful ritual with him. It would be crossing boundaries to dare to touch his face—even if only to wake him. That was too intimate and Ed wondered vaguely why it had been his first impulse.

Instead, Ed moved his hand down and rested it on Mustang's upper arm and shook him, making very sure not to jostle him too hard.

"Mustang...? Sir...?"

The colonel grunted softly and drew in a slow, deep sigh as his eyes wavered open.

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Roy blinked groggily, confused in the first stumbling moments of wakefulness. Someone was hovering over him, calling him, resting a hand on his arm. His vision cleared a little and he saw a kind face framed with blonde hair.

"Hawkeye..." he murmured, wanting to go back to sleep.

The hand on his arm froze for a second, then retreated. "No, it's Edward," the voice informed him quietly. "Fullmetal."

Roy looked up again, squinting his sore eyes to make them work better. The hazy, almost angelic visage before him sharpened and became Fullmetal's own adolescent face.

"Oh," he said when he recognized him. He might have felt a little embarrassed if he weren't so sleepy. "Sorry..."

"It's okay... How are you feeling?"

"...Claustrophobic..." he mumbled, pulling a little on the cuff again as he remembered that it was there. Damn, it was hard to talk. It was even harder to move. "Ed. Take... this off."

Ed cleared his throat awkwardly, but didn't even touch the cuff. "Sir, we need to talk to you if..." he stopped for a beat before pressing on, "...you think you're up to it."

He looked upset.

"Don't be upset..." Roy told him, Hawkeye's words from before coming back to him. Ed had been crying. He had been worried about Roy... He shouldn't be. He had other things to worry about...

"...What did you say?" Ed asked tentatively, leaning forward a little, "I couldn't quite make that out..."

"Maes was wrong... t' make you cry..."

Ed maintained another uncertain silence, then slowly straightened up again and took a little step backward. Maybe he was embarrassed... Roy wasn't sure. The world around him going fuzzy again and he started to slip back under the warm weight of sleep, burying his cheek into his pillow.

"Colonel, _please_..." Edward said, daring to come forward and take his arm again after a moment. "Havoc isn't doing too good and we need your help, okay? Do you understand?"

Roy groaned and dragged his eyelids up again, roused by Havoc's name.

"Jean... How is he?" Roy asked, trying to shake the sleep from his head. He looked around the room in an attempt to make himself more alert, realizing now that Ed was trying to talk about something important. Alphonse was here too, standing behind Edward. Ed's face was pinched with worry, tense lines forming between his brows. He was always so serious... Children shouldn't be so serious all the time. It's unhealthy.

"He's _dying_, Colonel. Al and I were studying the transmutation circle that Kimbley put on Havoc back at your place all night and we figured out that we can't separate them without Kimbley's help," Ed said in a rush, as if trying to get everything out before Roy could fall asleep again. "Hughes even bribed him, but he won't budge. Please, sir, do you know any way to make him listen to us?"

Roy didn't respond for a moment, struggling to follow what Ed was saying. It was like trying to trudge through hip-deep snow while dragging an anchor, but finally he understood what the boy was asking of him and his mind cleared a bit in the wake of a sharp surge of anxiety. He brought his hand up and rubbed his eyes.

God, _Havoc_. He was dying... Roy had known that, from what Hawkeye had told him this morning, but hearing Ed say it kind of drove the thought home through the gauzy shroud of illness covering his mind. Alphonse and Edward had done their part to help by identifying the alchemy, but what good would that do if they needed Kimbley's cooperation for the alchemy to be undone? Kimbley was an evil man, and the heartfelt pleading of two boys wasn't going to sway him.

"You can't make him listen," Roy said, trying to think.

"So... so that's it, then?" Ed demanded, "There's just nothing we can do?"

"He won't listen to anything you say... I know he won't."

"Is there _nothing_ we can offer him? You can't think of _anything_...?"

"I said that _you_ couldn't convince him..." Roy reminded him, grabbing onto the bedrail and trying to pull himself upright, "But m-maybe _I_ can... Ed, get this cuff off me and take me to them."

"...No."

Roy looked up at him, surprised. "Nn... N-no?" he panted against the rail, the pain in his stomach starting to awaken slightly as he moved around.

"No," Ed restated with a fortitude that the softness of his face belied. He took Roy's arm again and pushed back down onto the bed. "I'm already in trouble with Hughes because of you... Let me go get him and see what he says about letting you talk to Kimbley..."

"He's not going... to... to let me go... There's no point in even... asking."

Ed chewed his lip doubtfully. Even though his blurry, distorted vision and his equally blurry and distorted thoughts, Roy could tell that Ed knew he was right. Maes had made it clear that Roy was not to leave this room and would not, under any circumstances, release him. Maes was a pretty laid back guy, but when he got pissed, he didn't fuck around.

"...C'mon, Ed. This m-may be Havoc's only chance..."

Ed bowed his head a little, his hair curtaining his downcast eyes.

"No," he said again finally. "If Hughes says no, then the answer is no."

"_Fullmetal_... Take the cuff off. It's an order."

Ed shook his head again stubbornly. "I'm not helping you again. You could get hurt, Mustang. You could die."

"If you don't help me, Havoc will _certainly_ die!" Roy shouted and his voice protested being raised by coming out in a hoarse rasp that hurt his throat and made him want to cough. He resisted the urge though, knowing that a coughing fit would probably not feel too great, considering his recent operation.

"I'm not going to help you risk your life again!" Ed shouted back, "You're hurt! You need to stay in bed!"

"Just let me try...!"

"If Kimbley won't pay any attention to us, what makes you think that _you_ can change his mind? He hates you! Do you really think he'll listen to you? Do you really think that you being there will make any difference at all?"

"I don't know, Ed. Maybe... maybe I _can't_ help, but at least let me see Havoc!" But then Roy stopped and took a deep breath. The yelling wasn't doing anything to help the increasing pain in his gut, nor did it seem to be helping his argument. He exhaled and softened his tone. "All I'm asking is for you to let me see my subordinate... my _friend_... before he dies, even if I can't save him."

Ed crossed his arms over his chest, chewing his lip again. "I can't. Don't you understand that? I _can't_."

"Edward, listen to me, I—"

"No, _you_ listen!" Ed cut him off, "Do _not_ lay this shit on me. Havoc might die no matter what we do and I can't help that, but I'm not going to risk you dying, too. I'm sorry... I truly am."

Roy's heart sank—_plummeted_, really, like a stone to the dark, cold bottom of the sea. There was sorrow in Ed's voice and his apology was sincere. He was really going to leave Roy here. He was going to leave him, chained to this bed, while one of his closest friends died in this very same building. The realization hit Roy like a clenched fist, filling him with a deep, bilious kind of dread. After all this, after all that had happened over the past few days between Jean and Roy, they weren't even going to be allowed to say goodbye to one another.

"Ed... Ed, please..." Roy begged him, feeling the first chilling stabs of desperation. "You can't allow this..."

Edward looked away from him and as he turned his head the dusky light that was managing to drag itself through the thick curtains on the window shone briefly in his over-bright eyes, betraying the tears that were staring to form there.

"You're really... just going to rob me of the chance to talk to him again before he dies..." Roy breathed. "You'd really take that from me..."

"Yeah, I would," Ed whispered, his voice cracking a little. He sniffed and cleared his throat. "If it keeps you safe, I'd do a lot of things. You have n-no idea how scared I was when..." His voice broke again and he cut off, shaking his head and hugging himself even more tightly.

Roy stared at him for a moment, then slowly rested his head back down on his pillow, trying to wrap his head around what was happening. It wasn't fair... It was just so unfair... It was devastating and frightening and there was _nothing_ that Roy could do to change it. He curled back over on his side, his heart pounding in his throat and closed his eyes helplessly.

"Get some rest, Colonel..." he heard Ed say, his words sounding strained as they left his lips. "I'm sorry that we bothered you... But I'll... I'll try to keep you updated on what's going on, okay...?"

Roy didn't say anything, not wanting to talk to him anymore, or even look at him. After a moment, Roy heard Ed give a sad little sigh that might have been half-sob, followed by his uneven footsteps rushing from the room and disappearing quickly down the hallway.

Roy closed his eyes even more tightly, gritting his teeth. He would not weep. Tears did nothing more than give him a headache, and that was the last thing he needed. How dare them—Edward and Maes both. How could they keep him like this, no matter how sick or hurt he was, if there was still that slim chance that he could help Havoc by talking sense into Kimbley? It was his life, and he should be able to risk it at his own discretion if it meant he had even the meagrest shot at doing some good... or at least to hold a loved one's hand as he died...

It wasn't fair...

"Colonel?"

Roy jumped, startled. He hadn't realized that Alphonse was still in the room. He'd almost forgotten that Al had been here at all while he was talking to Ed... he'd been distracted and his mind was still unclear, and this was the first time that Al had spoken since coming in. Roy almost didn't respond to him, hoping that he would just leave if he pretended to be asleep. He didn't want to talk to him any more than he wanted to talk to Edward. He was finished with talking...

"What?" he rasped in spite of himself after allowing a small silence to grow, but didn't deign to actually look up at him.

"Don't be mad at brother," the boy urged gently, "You know that this is the right thing. You're still very weak... and we weren't even supposed to be in here in the first place. If he'd helped you escape, he would have been in a lot of trouble and if you'd gotten hurt again, he would have never been able to forgive himself..."

"Just get out, Alphonse," Roy told him, reaching down to his waist to grab the blankets and gingerly pull them back up to his chest. He just wanted to sleep so that everything would go away for a while... Most likely by the time he woke up again, the situation would have resolved itself with Havoc's death... He shuddered at such a morbid thought.

The room went dead quiet for several long seconds, but he didn't hear Al so much as budge. After another cold, lengthy stretch though, he said:

"...Were you really forced to kill Winry's parents, or did you volunteer?"

Roy's eyes flew open and his heart stopped mid-beat to recoil in shock. He raised his head and looked at the tall metal boy standing near the foot of the bed, and he suddenly appeared in Roy's drug-influenced perception as a grim specter, a bringer of dark tidings at his bedside. He licked his lips, finding himself at a loss for words, and the saliva on his tongue stung the raw flesh between the dry cracks.

"Why... W-what would make you ask that?" he asked finally, already knowing.

"Kimbley was just... saying some stuff and I just wanted to make sure that he was lying."

There was something in Alphonse's voice that Roy had never heard before. Gone was the simple, childish innocence that—in spite of everything that he and his brother had been through in their short lives—usually rang cheerfully in his every utterance, and in its place resonated something else, something quietly angry and entirely too adult to be coming from such a mild creature. Alphonse wasn't really asking; he was accusing.

"Alphonse... Al, you have to understand..." Roy began, his heart lodging back in his throat again after it had recovered from its shock, burrowing in behind his Adam's apple. "You can't listen to anything that freak says..."

"I tried not to, but this hit me pretty hard and I need to know that you aren't the monster that he says you are. Did you volunteer?"

"But there's more to it than that... you can't just—"

"It's a simple question, Colonel. Yes or no."

This had always been, and would always be, the most painful boundary between Roy and the Elrics. There were many boundaries, but this one hurt the most... on both sides... and all of them usually tried to avoid this topic at all costs. Roy had never intended to tell them about it at all, though he knew full well of their connection with those two murdered doctors, but Marcoh—ever the martyr—had divulged Roy's sins as well as his own, and those words could not be unsaid. And now here those sins were, once again. Those sins that had finally broken him, those last two pieces that toppled the tower of his self-control and sent him spiraling into the abyss, holding a gun to his chin as he fell...

"Yes."

The word caught in his throat and came out as a frail, breathy whisper. Yes, he had volunteered. He had done it willingly. Two innocent people, two bullets, and two deafening roars that marked their deadly union, all burned into his soul, damning him beyond redemption.

Alphonse moved closer and Roy flinched instinctively, the coward in him expecting to be struck. He deserved to be struck. He deserved to be killed for what he'd done... for what he'd lied about doing—to everyone—for so many years.

Al took Roy's cuffed hand roughly and jerked on it so that the metal bracelet bit hard into the sore, half-scabbed flesh around his wrist. He hissed in pain, but then opened his eyes again when he heard the harsh, sharp sound of metal giving way.

The armored boy had broken the short chain connecting the two cuffs, freeing Roy from his imprisonment. The dazed colonel stared down, dumbfounded, at the disconnected chain dangling from his wrist.

"We're done with you," Alphonse said, his voice dangerously quiet. "My brother doesn't owe you anything, so go get yourself killed, if that's what you want."

Then he gave a low, stiff bow—so low that his white horsehair plume slid down over his shoulder and brushed the lacquered floor. "There's a wheelchair by the door if you need it," he said and then left the room without looking back, leaving Roy alone in the cloud of hatred and sorrow that they had just created.

Roy didn't move for a long time. He just lay there numbly even after he could no longer hear Alphonse's clinking, clanking gait echo down the corridor outside. His sluggish, grieving brain wasn't allowing him to really react to what had just happened, and almost all thought had abandoned him. He knew that he should be horrified and anguished by what Kimbley had just remotely forced him to divulge to Al, but he really didn't feel much at all anymore. Alphonse's departure had left him empty, and the drugs in his system filled that void in an instant, taking away the pain.

He almost considered staying where he was... it would certainly be easier to just do as he was told, even if it killed him inside. But then what of Havoc...? No, Alphonse had coldly given him this chance to help him and Roy would not waste it.

It took him a couple tries to sit up, and when he finally did manage to drag himself fully upright, the hospital room tottered and spun around him and a bloodless chill crawled up the back of his neck and across his brow, momentarily filling his vision with a swarm of white spots. He took a few deep breaths and waited for the spots to dissipate. He was going to have to be careful and take this slow or he was going to pass out... and if he fell, he knew he'd never be able to get up again—even if he _didn't_ severely hurt himself when he hit the floor...

He pulled out his IV, then shifted toward the edge of the bed—the side nearer to the door, as Hawkeye had already lowered the bedrail on that side when she'd been visiting earlier—and slowly... so, so slowly... he put his feet on the floor and stood. The dull pain in Roy's stomach that had been lazily increasing since Ed had woken him up gave a sudden lurch from uncomfortable to _bad_ and for a moment he couldn't breathe. His legs shook and his knees threatened to buckle under his weight, but he managed to stumble forward a few steps and brace himself against the other bed in the room before he could collapse.

_Lay. Down,_ his body seemed to be growling at him.

He bowed his heavy head and forced his lungs back into motion, grimacing against the discomfort in his abused organs and ignoring his body's exasperated order. Oh, this was going to be hard. It had been hard even when he'd had Ed and Al supporting him and helping him walk, but this was exponentially more difficult. Now he had no one to support him... and Al, at least, would never lower himself to support him again...

No, he couldn't think about that right now. He had to get to Havoc. That was the only thing that he was allowed to focus on. He would _crawl_ to get there if that's what he had to do. Luckily for him though, Al hadn't been lying about the wheelchair sitting at the foot of this bed—just out of Roy's reach from where he was currently leaning—so crawling wouldn't be necessary. He took a few more deep breaths to steel himself then, using the bed as a crutch the whole way, worked his way over to the foot of the bed and lowered himself into the awaiting chair.

"S-son of a _bitch_..." he swore once he was settled, doubling over a little and trying to catch his breath. He had traveled perhaps a grand total of seven feet and he was already exhausted, but at least he was sitting down, now... he didn't know how much longer he would have been able to stay standing, even if the boys _had_ been there to help him. This wasn't like the last time he'd left a hospital room without permission... That time, mere days ago, he'd been unconscious for days beforehand, which allowed his wounds to heal a little and allowed his body to start replenishing his depleted blood-supply. Now, though, his wounds were fresh and his heart felt like it was running on fumes, working overtime to spread blood throughout his body... Even sitting down, he was light-headed and was almost afraid that he might faint if he didn't keep his thoughts riveted to his goal.

"Havoc," he reminded himself aloud, still panting. He gripped the wheels bedecking the chair and—after a few moments of trying to figure out how to steer the damn thing—wheeled himself out of the room, being careful not to make eye contact with any of the medical personnel he spotted further down the corridor.

It became irrevocably clear, though, by the time he reached the end of the hallway and made it halfway toward the elevator near the end of another corridor, that his journey was an impossible one. After wheeling perhaps only ten or twelve yards his arms started to shake with exhaustion but he pushed himself onward, nearly crying out each time he turned the wheels, his torn stomach muscles clenching with the exertion. The morphine was doing a lot to muddle his brain, but the more he moved around, the less it was keeping his pain at bay.

About fifteen feet away from the elevator, Roy's tired, clumsy hand fumbled and his grip on the wheel slipped. The wheelchair swerved a little and he allowed himself to roll to a stop, breathing so hard that his lungs hurt, unable to keep going. He just couldn't do it. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't do this alone. It was too hard and he was just too tired and no one was here to help him. No one was even _willing_ to help him... Maes was pissed at him for getting hurt again and Ed and Hawkeye were both following his lead... Havoc was dying somewhere beyond Roy's reach... and who knew where Breda and Fuery were? And Al certainly wasn't going to help him anymore than he already had. He hated Roy now...

God, what if he told Ed that Roy really _had_ done what Kimbley said? But of course he was going to tell him... How could he keep this knowledge from his brother? The hurtful, hateful knowledge that he had not only slaughtered two sinless doctors—two adults that those boys had known and loved as children... people that had probably babysat them on more than one occasion...—but had _wanted_ to do it just to make himself look good... He'd regretted it the moment he pulled that trigger, and not a day went by that he didn't hate himself for doing it... but what value could that remorse possibly hold to bereaved children?

Roy had finally been caught in his lie and he knew that he might never be forgiven... Everyone was going to find out. His subordinates would despise him. Maes would turn his back on him and walk away...

What else had Kimbley said? How many of Roy's shameful secrets had he uncovered... and who had heard them? How long would it be before they all abandoned him, seeing him for the monster that he really was, the way Al just had? Maybe he really was just as bad as Kimbley. Maybe he was worse, because at least Kimbley was honest about his sins...

The white spots had returned to Roy's vision again, completely clouding his peripheral field with intangible snow. His heart was pounding hard with both fatigue and distress and each chest-wracking beat sent a renewed pulse of cold to his face and fingertips. He lowered his head into his hands weakly, feeling both worthless and helpless and just wishing that Kimbley really had killed him when he'd had the chance.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Riza Hawkeye sat at her commander's desk, alone in the office in the wake of Fuery's departure, wiping her damp eyes on her sleeve. The colonel's blood still stained the carpet next to her, no matter how many times the custodial crew had tried to clean it. It would have to be replaced, said General Hakuro, to keep up appearances. Personally, Riza didn't care much whether or not it stayed this way. Maybe it would be good for them to keep this bloody memento... this ghastly reminder of their own mortality. Maybe it would give them a healthier respect for death...

Riza had in front of her Kimbley's medical file. She probably wasn't supposed to leave the hospital with it, but she hadn't really been thinking clearly when he ran out of there.

She had laughed—_laughed_—when she'd read that Kimbley was suffering from a terminal disease. What kind of decent human being would laugh at another's pain, no matter how much they hated them? No, it didn't matter that Kimbley was a murdering scumbag. It didn't matter how cruel he was or how much she thought that he needed to be punished. Nothing gave her the excuse to sink to his level and find joy in his illness. Nothing.

The shame she felt now was unbearable. That wasn't how she was. That wasn't her. She'd never thought that she'd ever become like this, something so sick and foul that could be amused by cancer. The fact that he was an enemy did not let her forgive herself, and now she knew that she was capable of being the same monster that the Crimson Alchemist was... the potential for evil was there, even if she chose not to indulge in it.

But perhaps that potential lived in everyone. Maybe that sick desire to see a foe struck down—and not only killed or captured, but _tortured_—dwelled in every human being, a latent trace of animalistic nature. Nature or not, though, she didn't want it to be a part of her and was horrified to realize that it could be repressed, but never erased. And yes, maybe she was being a little childish for this to affect her so much, but she couldn't help it. He laughter made her doubt herself and who she thought that she was. It shook her to her core, shoving terrible truths into her face that she didn't want to acknowledge.

She curled up in Mustang's chair, inhaling his scent from the black leather, trying to steal some kind of reassurance from it and finding nothing.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Edward stood at the sink in the men's room, splashing his face with the frigid water running out of the tap.

The cold water would lessen the red puffiness around his eyes and wash away the stiffness of drying tears from his cheeks. He didn't want Al to know he'd been crying again. He didn't want anyone to see his weakness. That episode yesterday in the waiting room had been intolerable. Fucking Hughes... Fucking Mustang, too.

Why couldn't Mustang understand that he needed to stay put? He was already so hurt... Ed had even had nightmares last night about it, of Mustang coughing up blood again, drowning in it, going cold in his arms... Mustang just had to stay in bed no matter what. Even Hughes said so... And if he had even gone so far to cuff the man down, then he meant business...

But the look on Mustang's face when he realized that even Ed wasn't going to help him this time... when he finally understood that Havoc was most likely going to die and that Ed was denying him this final chance to see him again... that had been hard. He'd almost let the man go, when he saw his devastation...

Ed looked up over at the door to the men's room, water dripping from his lashes and from his nose. Maybe he should go back... Mustang had a right to see his friend, didn't he? Ed knew that he'd want the chance to say goodbye... When they were young and their mother was dying, Ed had had to fight for him and Al to be allowed to sit by her deathbed during her last moments... so that they could hold her hand and tell her that they loved her, trying the whole time to convince her that she was going to be fine, in spite of what the doctors had told them time and again. That final conversation with her was something that Ed held sacred... so wasn't it wrong of him to rob Mustang of such a thing with Havoc...? He should go back. He should help him get to Havoc. Ed would make sure nothing happened...

No. No, he _couldn't_. Mustang was _hurt_, goddamn it!

Angry at himself, Ed grabbed a paper towel from the dented dispenser and pressed it to his face, letting it wick the moisture from his skin as he quelled yet another volley of tears.

_Stop it_, he mentally told himself. _Stop it, stop it, stop it..._

Ed didn't cry often. He hated crying. Sometimes it felt like his body really wanted him to just give in and bawl like a baby, but he almost never did. It was usually pretty easy to keep himself from crying in the first place, but once he got started it was almost impossible to stop.

"Brother...?"

Ed peeked over the edge of the soggy towel to see Al poking his head in through the door.

"I'll be out in a minute," he promised, proud that he'd managed to keep his voice from quaking at all.

"I need to talk to you..."

"Fine, just give me a sec, will ya? Jeez."

Al stiffened a little at the sharpness in Ed's tone, but retreated without another word. Ed sniffed and tossed the paper towel into the waste bin, cursing himself under his breath. Al was worried, too. He didn't need to be snapped at. Ed would apologize for it later.

Ed raised his sore eyes to his reflection in the mirror above the sink.

"Crybaby," he accused himself as his eyes started filling again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Al waited outside the bathroom for his brother. He knew that Ed was crying. He always thought that he was great at hiding it, but Al always knew. He pretended not to notice anything, in an attempt to salvage Ed's fragile pride, but he could always tell, no matter how much cold water Brother splashed on his face.

It hadn't taken more than a few minutes for Al to find him after he'd run off from Mustang's room. He figured the bathroom would be the most likely place for him to go, so that he could be alone and get a hold of himself with a ready supply of towels to wipe his streaming face with. He wasn't as tough as he thought he was and he was a thousand times more predictable. And so Al just stood out in the hallway and waited for him, letting Ed believe that he was shielding his brother from his pain, when in fact he was causing Al to feel it even more sharply because of his attempt at secrecy.

Al had intended on barging into the bathroom and telling Ed that what Kimbley said about Mustang and the Rockbells was true. He wanted to scream it to the world. He wanted the universe to point its eternal finger down at Roy Mustang and condemn him for his lies and his cruelty. For a brief moment there, he'd wanted to kill the man... just completely tear him apart... rip his head from his shoulders and leave him twitching and bleeding in the hospital bed. The feeling was brief, but chilling, and Al had made himself free the man and leave the room quickly before he was actually tempted to give in to that savage anger. But the moment he opened the bathroom door and saw Ed standing there, pressing a towel to his face as he tried to stop crying, the anger in him settled down and left him with a lingering sadness.

It wasn't really what he'd done that made Al so angry—he had made some kind of peace with that, hadn't he...? What really bothered him was that Mustang had _lied_ about it, and not just to Ed and Al. When Doctor Marcoh told them about the colonel's involvement with the Rockbell's deaths, he seemed to be under the impression that Mustang had been ordered to do it as well. Not even Hughes knew. He'd been outraged that Kimbley had even _suggested_ such a filthy thing. This lie went deep and, to Al at least, it spoke volumes about what a coward Mustang really was behind his powerful exterior. He was just a weak as everyone else.

Weaker, even.

And if this piece of what Kimbley said was true, then everything else he'd said was probably just as valid. And if that was the case...

"Hey, Alphonse."

Al jerked a little at the voice that had come, not from the closed door in front of him, but from somewhere down the hallway to his right. He looked over and saw Fuery meandering toward him, one hand raised in greeting. His fingers, Al noted, were marred with at least half a dozen adhesive bandages.

"What happened to your hand?" Al asked as the young man came to a halt beside him.

Fuery smirked a little shamefacedly and looked down at his bandage-bedecked hand. "The hazards of double-time filing. Paper-cuts are _murder_."

Al gave a little, half-hearted titter, not really feeling like laughing.

"...So how's Mustang doing?" Fuery asked with a soft frown, sensing Al's unease.

Al was about to say something cool and generic like "Fine, I guess," or "I don't know," but the words that actually spilled from him were far more powerful. Without really meaning to, he just opened up and told Fuery everything that was on his mind, every worry and spark of rage. He talked about how concerned he was for Hughes and Breda and Hawkeye—especially Hawkeye... he just wanted to tell her that everything was going to be okay and to know that those words were not a lie. He told him about how he and Ed couldn't help Havoc and about how frail the poor lieutenant looked now.

He told him about what Kimbley had said about Mustang, he told him about Mustang's confession. Al talked about his own betrayed fury and how he wanted Ed to see if he could transfer his services to another HQ, to get away from that lying man. He told him about Ed crying and about how scared he was and how, suddenly, he just didn't know what to do or how to feel about anything anymore...

Everything was changing. It was all falling apart, spiraling out of control and there was nothing that anyone could do to stop it. Kimbley had started a chain-reaction, and nothing would be spared from the destruction, it seemed.

When he finished his tirade, his hands trembling at his sides, Fuery took a deep breath and leaned back against the wall beside the door and stared down at his polished boots.

"None of us are going to survive this as we are," he said quietly. "None of us will ever be able to look at each other the same way again by the time this is all over... However it ends."

"...W-what do you mean?" Al asked him, weak and wanting to cry in the wake of all his purged thoughts and fears, like a child whimpering after puking in his bed.

"I mean... our perceptions have been altered. Everyone is different, now. I've always known that Breda was loyal to Havoc, but his love goes much deeper than I thought he was even capable of. He's always so gruff, but look at him now. I'd never seen him cry before now. And then Hughes... the man I've seen wearing his skin lately isn't the gentle daddy that I'm used to. He's angry and kinda mean... Hawkeye was sitting at Mustang's desk when I left the office. She was crying and muttering to herself, and she's always so composed, isn't she?"

Alphonse's soul ached to hear that last part, picturing her alone in the office now, her head buried in her arms, so inundated with grief that she'd finally lost her grip on that stable façade that Al always thought was so strong...

"And Mustang..." Fuery stopped and swallowed, his voice getting softer and softer as he spoke. "...We don't need to talk about Mustang. And Ed here is overcome by weakness, crying his eyes out in a bathroom after telling a man that he can't see his dying friend. The tough guy isn't so tough when he has to make someone he loves suffer, is he?"

He stopped again and looked up at Al. Fuery's eyes, which had been bright enough when he'd first come in—infused, no doubt, with the same false cheer that many people assumed when stepping into a hospital—had darkened and dulled. He looked older than he usually did, more severe somehow, perhaps even pained.

"And then there's you," he went on finally, the words now barely above a whisper. "You just took your support away from the one person who needs it most, because he committed a crime that we have already forgiven him for. Whether or not he did it willingly doesn't change how much he suffers every time he looks at you or Ed and is forced to remember what he did. The fact that he volunteered doesn't change anything except your perception of him, and you chose to abandon him—an injured, grieving man who cherishes you boys more than you can ever understand—just because of that. I think you were subconsciously looking for a reason to hate him, because you've really never forgiven him for his transgressions the way that the rest of us have. I would have never thought that _you'd_ be the more vindictive one of the Elric brothers, when it came down to it. I guess you never really know a person."

Al just stared down at him, unable to form a coherent word, let alone any kind of defense for himself.

"But that's just what I think... That's what I see now, in my altered perception," he finished with an odd little shrug. "I'm going to go see Havoc. Maybe I'll run into Mustang along the way. See you later."

He flicked his bandaged hand up in farewell, then turned and started slowly down the hallway, radiating a defiant kind of power that Al had never felt from the kind, quiet, animal-loving young man before. Al looked away from his retreating back after a moment, turning to stare at the bathroom door again, not knowing how to feel.


	13. Pain

_It wasn't stopping. Oh, god, it wasn't stopping this time. _

_Jean couldn't say how long this current attack of agony had been afflicting him—ten minutes? Thirty? An hour? Regardless, it had been so long that he couldn't really even scream anymore. He just writhed and moaned on the bed, the occasional sob breaking from him as he and Kimbley both fought to keep his body breathing._

_Jean wasn't ready for this yet. He wasn't ready for death. He should just let go... The pain would stop if he just let himself slip, but he fought on. Heymans was still with him, still holding his hand and telling him to bear it for just a little while longer. It would stop soon, he kept saying. Just hold on, it'll stop soon. Just wait._

_But it wasn't stopping and Heymans was starting to realize that, in spite of what he said. He was crying. Doctors came and went, patting Hughes and Heymans on the shoulder sympathetically. They all knew that this was it. There was nothing that they could do._

_Jean wasn't really completely conscious anymore. He just kind of floated in and out, but no matter where his flickering consciousness was—in his dream-world or with Heymans and Hughes in the hospital room—it still hurt. Even here, on this snowy hillside where it had never hurt before, it hurt so much. He couldn't escape from the pain anymore by retreating back into himself. It had followed him, attacking his very soul. He was at war with his own body, and he was losing ground fast._

"_It w-won't be long..." Kimbley said, huddled a few feet away, his long arms wrapping around his torso as if against the snow falling around him. Jean knew that it wasn't the snow, though, that was causing him to shudder and double over, holding himself even more tightly. Neither Kimbley nor Jean could even feel the snow, but they shivered and hugged themselves nonetheless. Jean wished that he _could_ feel it, though... for even the bitter, biting cold would offer some distraction from the pain that he and the man next to him were suffering through as they just sat here and waited to die._

"Jean."

_Jean looked heavenward, staring up through the impalpable snowstorm, toward the distant room where he imagined Hughes was calling him from._

"Jean," _Hughes called again. Jean could vaguely feel the man's cool hand on his cheek, patting it to get his attention_. "Nod if you can hear me."

_He considered ignoring him. It would be easier that way, but he knew that he couldn't do that. He should try to communicate with them while he still could, because who knew when his last breath would leave him and silence him forever...?_

"_Just nod so he'll shut up," Kimbley advised, not looking at him._

So Jean reached out and made himself surface again—something that he was avoiding as much as he possibly could now, though sometimes he couldn't really control it as he and Kimbley were shoved upward into the waves of pain, forced to withstand the amplified sensations of a dying body. It seemed like Jean had no control over anything anymore. It hurt enough back down there in the imaginary snow, but here was even worse. Still, even as the waves of pain slammed into him even harder, a veritable tempest of agony, he made himself nod. Even that slight movement made him feel as if the bones of his neck were made of hot splinters of glass, his spine slicing into his failing flesh.

"I'm going to go call your mom, okay?" Hughes went on, "Breda says she's your closest relative and we haven't contacted her at all yet... Do you think you can hold on long enough for her to get here?"

Jean paused a moment, struggling to hear him over his own loud gasping, over the imagined sound of his bones grinding and tearing into his muscles. His mom? They wanted his mother to come here and see him like _this_...? She surely didn't know at this moment that her only child was dying, wracked with indescribable pain... Would it be better to keep her in the dark, and only let her know what was going on after he had already died, so that she didn't have to witness his suffering?

But—Jean realized with a harsh jolt that called fresh tears to his already-blurred sight—he _wanted_ his mother. He suddenly wanted to see her _so_ badly that it hurt, in a place far beyond his body and soul. He wanted her chubby arms to wrap around him. He wanted to rest his head on her bosom and sob, and tell her how sorry he was for not calling more often, as she always scolded him for.

He nodded again, clenching his jaw and trying to hold back the pathetic, pained noises coming from his mouth. Yes. Yes, he could hold on for that. She was almost an hour away if she left from home now, and though he didn't know how much time he really had left, he would try his damnedest to stay rooted in his body for her.

"Good..." Hughes praised him sadly, "Do you think you can tell me her phone number?"

"I know it," Heymans said automatically, his voice unnaturally hoarse. Jean laughed a little at that, but the soft mirth exited his throat clumsily and made it sound like he was choking, causing both Hughes and Heymans to stiffen a little. But it was still funny. Of course Heymans knew Mama Havoc's phone number by heart; he probably called her more than Jean did. Heymans' own mother was a beastly woman that had always scared Jean witless when he was a child... Heymans had practically lived with Jean until his father died and they moved away—coming over early in the morning and going back home only after it got dark. They were all very close, and not much had changed since then.

God, Jean was going to miss him. He already missed him, and the feeling was certainly mutual. Jean wanted to tell him what a good friend he had been all these years and how much he appreciated how he had been staying by his side now for hours on end... but he couldn't speak. He was beyond speech, and he had missed his last chance to open up and let him know how much he loved him like a brother.

One of his many regrets.

His body tensed and a weak little wail eeked from his chest as the pain within him increased again.

_He pushed himself backward and fled from his body, opening his eyes once again to the snowy plain in his head. It didn't help much, but the pain did lessen just a fraction... enough to let him think and speak._

_He turned to Kimbley after a beat, knowing that the man could see his fear and devastation. Kimbley didn't chide him for it, though. He hadn't said much at all during this endless spasm of pain—it was like a metaphysical labor contraction, Jean's body trying to eject both him and Kimbley, trying to birth them into the embrace of Death rather than into the cold brightness of life that a newborn is greeted with._

_Jean rubbed his face. His mind was full of such poetic, self-pitying nonsense. He must be losing it._

"_I don't know if..." Kimbley began, then stopped to moan and bow his head. Jean wanted to feel victorious that this man was now suffering as much as he was, but all he felt was sadness and pity. A moment passed before Kimbley could raise his head and continue, "i-if we'll be able to... l-last long enough for mommy-dearest to get here."_

"_I know," Jean gasped, leaning backward to lie flat on his back in the powdery snow, arms spread wide. "I just w-want to try... You own me... that m-much..."_

_Kimbley looked at him, his pained, half-lidded eyes still penetrating as he stared at him through the curtain of gray-white coldness. But then he nodded, agreeing. He knew that none of this was fair to Jean... Kimbley himself had admitted that Jean was nothing but an innocent bystander... but whether or not the man felt any real remorse for stealing Jean's life from him, he couldn't really tell. Regardless, Kimbley's tacit agreement to help him stay alive until his mom got here was touching._

_Jean almost laughed again at the thought. He really _was_ losing it if he was having any kind of warm thoughts toward his captor._

_Still... he suddenly felt compelled to ask him something. "Do... d'you have family you w-want contacted? Hughes'll get... them... if I tell him to..."_

"_No," the man replied flatly, without hesitation._

_Something in his voice let Jean know not to pursue the issue, so he just sighed and stared up at the sky..._

_Waiting for his universe to collapse._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Maes said a quiet goodbye and hung up the phone. Idora Havoc was on her way. Maes hadn't had the heart to tell her how bad off her son really was, but she knew that he was in the hospital and wanted her by his side. Hopefully she would get here in time.

He'd called Hawkeye, too, to tell her to come back to the hospital. Everyone should be here, to bid their companion farewell. All of Roy's staff had an odd sort of connection with each other that Maes almost envied—they were family, plain and simple, hand-picked by Roy to be fiercely loyal to him and to one another. Maes' own staff was loyal, of course, but they didn't love each other the way the colonel's staff did... but perhaps that was better. Because then the pain wouldn't be so grave if one of them was taken down while on patrol, slain in the streets of their fair city. It had happened before to Maes' men, and it would likely happen again. Loss was part of the Investigations business; it was just easier for them to be acquaintances and steer clear of any kind of intimacy.

He sighed. God, this was hard.

He turned away from the payphone, shaking his head. He should go back to Havoc's room and keep Breda company; the man was a wreck. Maes had known that he and Havoc were good friends, but he hadn't realized just how close they were—they _must_ be close, if Breda knew Jean's mother's phone number off the top of his head... But Maes really didn't want to go back into that room right now. It was stifling, and Jean's constant cries felt like they were grating on Maes' very soul. He felt helpless in that room. He _was_ helpless in that room. He would go back eventually, but for now he just needed to take a walk around the hospital and clear his head.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and started down the hall the, after a brief pause, turned and headed down the staircase on his left. He should go check on Roy again. Maybe he'd be awake. Even if he wasn't awake, it would be good to just see him and know that he was alive. Breda's pain had reminded Maes of his own fear that his best friend might die, and he just needed to look at Roy to reassure himself... to fortify him against the death he was about to witness...

Maes turned down the second hallway on the first floor and headed for the half-open door to Roy's room. He stepped into the room quietly—not wanting to wake him if he was still asleep—but after scarcely two paces into the silent chamber his feet stopped dead in their tracks and his heart followed suit.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"You _what_?" Brother demanded from the bathroom doorway, his sore-looking, bloodshot eyes going wide.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Maes ran like a madman down the hallway, the sight of Roy's empty bed filling him with terror. Where the _fuck_ was a nurse when you needed one?!

_Not again, not again, not again... Please, let him be okay..._ Maes begged silently to any deity that might be listening. Roy wouldn't be able to survive any more trauma than he already had. It seemed like he was hanging on by a thread as it was and if he fell or somehow split his wound open again, there would be no coming back from that. It would be the end.

Damn it, why hadn't he known immediately that something was up when Ed and Al weren't standing outside of Havoc's door anymore... he should have guessed that they'd come right down here while Maes was distracted and take Roy out of his cuffs. It was so obvious in retrospect.

Maes was going to _kill_ Edward.

How could he do this? How _could_ he help Roy leave his bed, knowing what danger it put him in? After he and Maes had wept together, scared shitless that Roy was going to die...?

_Oh, please just let him be okay..._

Maes reached the end of the corridor and turned. He saw the elevator at the end of the hallway and made a mad dash for it. Ed would probably take Roy up to see Havoc, wouldn't he? They might already be there, entering the psychiatric wing on the third floor. That is, if Roy hadn't started hemorrhaging again all over the tiled floor, his wound gushing forth the remaining quantity of his life... He might even be dead already...

Heart in his throat, Maes sprinted toward the elevator, breezing past a patient in a wheelchair who had his head in his hands. Maes barely even saw him, too occupied with his own problems to even wonder what demons that man was silently fighting. He reached the elevator and jammed the UP button repeatedly—so hard that it hurt his finger, the sane part of him knowing that taking his horrified frustration out on the button wasn't going to make the elevator come any faster, but the rest of him too panicked to care. Damn it, this was taking too long! He should just take the stairs. Yeah, yeah, the stairs would be faster.

He spun from the elevator and stared helplessly back the way he had come. Fuck, he didn't even know where the stairs _were_...! He had taken them to get down here in the first place, but for the life of him he couldn't remember which direction they were in. He'd gotten all turned around in his panic. He'd have to backtrack and...

The man in the wheelchair had looked up when Maes flew by, lowering his hands a little to stare up at him blankly. There was a handcuff on his wrist with a small length of chain dangling from it. It reminded Maes perversely of a dog's broken leash.

The elevator announced its arrival at Maes' back with a loud, resounding _ding!_ and at that same moment Maes' legs nearly gave out from under him with relief as he realized who he was looking at.

"You son of a bitch..." Maes moaned, half laughing and half seething as he ran back toward Roy, his limbs trembling. "You stupid, stupid man..."

Roy didn't say anything, just stared as Maes approached him. His eyes were completely dead, Maes realized with a renewed stab of uneasiness—they were hollow and dark, as hopeless as the eyes of a corpse.

"Roy, buddy, are you okay...?" Maes asked tentatively, hardly able to get out the words in his breathlessness.

Roy shook his head in response to Maes' question and covered his solemn, empty face with his hands again. No, he wasn't okay. That was obvious.

"Did you hurt yourself? Are you bleeding?" Maes tried again, trying to sound calm. He didn't see any blood, but Roy's face was pale behind his hands and he was trembling pretty hard. Just because Maes didn't see blood didn't mean that he wasn't hurt...

But once again, Roy shook his head. Maes cautiously stood near him and put a hand on his arm in a feeble attempt to try and comfort him—not really knowing what else to do—but the Roy's only reaction to that was to start shaking even harder.

"Alphonse..." he moaned, the name so quiet and muffled by his hands that Maes almost didn't hear him.

Maes frowned, bewildered. Why would he be calling for Alphonse, of all people? He was probably a little delirious, but it was still odd... But, come to think of it, where _was_ Al? Or Ed, more importantly. Had the boys just released Roy from the bed and then split, not even sticking around to make sure that he could make it up to Havoc safely...?

The anger in the back of Maes' mind sneaked forward again at the thought. How _dare_ Edward do this... This was far beyond irresponsible. I bordered on criminal negligence. God, when Maes got his hands on him...

"He h-hates me..."

"What?" Maes asked him, surprised from his dark thoughts, "Al doesn't hate you, why would you think...?"

But then Maes trailed off and the blood in his veins ran cold as he remembered one of the last things Al had said then they were upstairs, right before Maes ran in to tend to Havoc:

"_...Why _would_ a State Alchemist be ordered to kill two unarmed doctors_?"

The words echoed in Maes' head, each syllable full of doubt and betrayed anger. Al had said afterward that he didn't really believe that shit that Kimbley had said, but...

"...Did Alphonse say something to you...?" Maes asked as delicately as he could, his mind having a great deal of difficulty with the idea of Alphonse being cruel enough to bring such a thing up to Roy in his current condition. "About the Rockbells...?"

Roy nodded again pitifully as he lowered his hands again, wrapping his arms around himself and looking as if he were trying to make himself stop shaking. Maes sighed, rubbing Roy's arm, feeling how ridiculously cold his flesh was and understanding that that was probably attributing to at least half of his shivering. He was also breathing hard and it was no wonder; he was surely exhausted if he'd made it all the way here from his room without any help... He needed to go back to bed.

"Roy, listen... No one really thinks that you volunteered to do that," Maes told him, wanting to soothe him a little before forcing him back to his room. "Alphonse was just upset and he—"

"I _did_ volunteer," he whispered, his voice breaking a little.

Maes froze. Oh. He opened his mouth to speak, but then discovered that he didn't have any idea what he should say and snapped it shut again.

"I know I... never told you," he went on, breath hitching, "I never told anyone... I'm so sorry, Maes... Please..."

Maes looked away from the pain and guilt in his best friend's gaze, not knowing how to respond to it. So then Kimbley hadn't been lying... but then did that mean...?

"And... did you..." Maes began after a moment, but then had to close his eyes briefly against his own blossoming pain before he could continue, "Did Kimbley make you... _pay_ him... to get rid of the bodies for you...?"

Roy's eyes widened even further, the grief on his face transforming into horror.

"Oh god..." he shuddered out hoarsely, turning away and hiding his face behind his hands again, looking as if he might be sick. "Oh god..."

Maes' mouth went dry. It was true then... it was _true_. He'd thought it was impossible, just an obscene jab that Kimbley had made up in a last-ditch effort to turn Colonel Mustang's men against him... But no, Roy himself was confirming those terrible declarations right in front of him, a deep sense of shame emanating from his quaking shoulders and crushing into Maes' chest with an unbearable kind of heaviness.

Maes couldn't do anything for several long beats of silence—he just looked down at his friend, silently watching him, waiting for him to turn around and say that his confessions were all a joke—but then he took his hand from Roy's arm to rub at his own suddenly stinging eyes, understanding that this was no jest, and it certainly wasn't funny. Roy must have construed the removal of Maes' hand as some sort of rejection, though, for he grabbed it again and squeezed it hard, his bleary eyes desperate.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..." he rasped, sounding like he was starting to cry, pressing his face to Maes' hand, "Please, Maes, don't hate me... Please, I couldn't bear that... Please..."

"Oh, Roy... I don't. Really," he assured him slowly. "I'm just a little... overwhelmed, I guess. I didn't expect..."

"He's destroyed everything," Roy went on as if he hadn't heard Maes speak, his words running together drunkenly. "He's destroyed _me_ and everyth-th-thing I've worked for to make things right again... N-none of you will _ever_ trust me again and I just... I..."

He faltered, his remorse and complete fatigue stealing the words from his lips and forcing him into a gasping, grief-stricken kind of silence for a moment.

"I c-can't do this without you! _All_ of you!" he sobbed finally, frightened and lost, still pressing his brow against Maes' hand in an archaic display of supplication. "Ed and Al will leave... Havoc is dying... All of you will leave me, one w-way or another... and I deserve it... I'm so sorry, Maes..."

Maes jaw clenched with pity and he sighed, trying to find the right words.

"I'm not going anywhere. You're overreacting, okay? You might be just a little bit delirious, I think. This is... something we're going to need to talk about—later—but I, for one, would never leave you over something like this."

"B-but..."

"War changes people, Roy. We all understand that. You were young and terrified and stupid... but that doesn't matter anymore. All of us are more concerned with who you are _now_, understand? As long as you can keep your promises and do the right thing _now_, then your past doesn't matter. I'll follow you anywhere, Colonel. You _know_ that..."

These heartfelt words, rather than having a calming effect on the distraught, wounded, clearly drugged-out man—as Maes had _assumed_ that they would—made Roy sink into an even harsher torrent of sobbing that was startling, to say the least. He sat up a little more erectly in his wheelchair and grabbed Maes by the waist, wrenching him closer and burying his face against his stomach. He wrapped his arms around him and cried so hard that it probably pulled at his stitches, but he was clearly too disoriented to give it much thought.

"'_M so sorry..._" was all that Maes could make out from between the violent sobs being voiced against his abdomen. "_Please... 'M so, s-so sorry..._"

If Maes had thought that he was unsure of what to do before, now he was _completely_ lost. Roy never cried. Maes had seen him come very close once, though, a few days after he'd come home from the Eastern Rebellion... Roy had been caught in a bitter, maddened kind of depression then, so deeply anguished by what he had done in Ishbal that he'd spent almost every waking hour that he'd been back home trying desperately to find a way to revoke the sins that he had committed. Maes had seen him then—had actually gone over against Roy's explicit wishes, wanting nothing more than to force some friendly, comforting company on him and perhaps some homemade pie—and he could never forget that day for as long as he lived. Roy hadn't really said a whole lot about what he'd done or what had been done to him... but he'd alluded to it enough for Maes to know that the experience had scarred him far more deeply than any wound.

But now, looking back on that day with the terrible things he Maes just learned... God, no wonder Roy had sought to end his own life back in those lonely deserts. Roy had hated himself then for the countless Ishbalans that he'd had to kill, not to mention the good doctors... Maes had always known that, but only now did he realize how deep that self-hatred went. Moreover, Roy _still _hated himself and had spent all these years just keeping it all in, never telling anyone about the most horrifying, humiliating bits of that war that had finally driven him to the edge.

Roy had done some horrible things, yes, but he had spent every day of his life since then trying to make amends for it. True, the fact that he volunteered to slaughter the innocent was sickening, but the added fact that committing such an atrocity _still_ tore him apart this much even now showed what a truly good person he was... And what he'd done for Kimbley to get rid of the bodies...

Maes' stomach muscles tightened with disgust as Roy continued to weep against them.

No. That wasn't Roy's fault and Maes didn't look down on him for it in any way... As far as Maes was concerned, Roy had been sexually assaulted. He had been molested by a madman. He was the _victim_ here, and it was obvious that he'd never gotten over it. He had hidden his trauma from everyone, even his best friend, terrified that he would be judged and forsaken for an act that he saw as both revolting and unforgivable... and it _was_ both of those things, but Kimbley was the one who deserved the brunt of that hatred, not Roy himself...

How deluded and terrified Roy must be now, to honestly think that Maes was going to abandon him because of this. He was so hurt and tired and anguished... and he was damaged beyond anything that any of the doctors in this hospital could cure.

They needed to talk about this. Roy's secrets were out in the open now, and they were going to need to have a long, long discussion about them, but now was not the time for that. Maes didn't want to talk about it right now, and Roy was clearly incapable of being able to converse rationally about this at the moment... Right now, Roy just needed to be comforted and kept safe. Everything else could wait for later.

So Maes just put a hand against the back of his friend's head and let him cry for a while, running his fingers through his hair and not saying anything. Roy needed this. These tears were long overdue, even if they were only being shed because of mind-altering painkillers and extreme exhaustion. After a few moments though, Roy did start to calm himself a little... though he continued to hug Maes' waist as if he never wanted to let go.

"Aw, Roy..." Maes crooned, gently trying to push him off a little. "It's okay... Come on, is this any way for a full-grown, respectable man to behave?"

Roy sniffled and quieted a little in response to that, but didn't seem quite ready to release Maes yet. He took a series of slow, deep breaths, burrowing his face even deeper against Maes' stomach, like a child wanting to cuddle with a parent. After a few beats though, he finally spoke.

"..._You're_ a f-full-grown, respectable man..." he mumbled darkly, still weeping, "...'N you cry a helluva lot m-more than I do..."

Maes smirked and reached down to remove Roy's arms from his waist. This time, Roy allowed himself to be pushed back. He wiped his streaming face on his arm, trembling even harder than he had been before and gasping as if he couldn't quite catch his breath.

Maes fished in his pocket for his handkerchief and handed it to him. Roy took it and Maes allowed him a moment to dry his eyes and collect himself.

"H-how's Havoc...?" Roy asked as he pressed the cloth to his eyes, clearly wanting to be distracted by a different subject.

"...Bad. I just called his mother," Maes told him softly, "It's... gotten to that point."

Roy seemed to wilt a little where he sat, inclining his head against the white cloth in his hands.

They had lost. This battle against Kimbley was coming to an end, and the good guys were on the losing side. Kimbley wasn't really winning either, Maes supposed, since his intended victim was still alive—and would stay that way if Maes had anything to say about it—but Havoc's approaching death still made it a defeat for them, and there was nothing that they could do about it...

"Let's get you back to bed, pal..." Maes said softly, getting behind him to that he could take the handlebars on the wheelchair and steer him back toward his room. "You look so tired."

"Please..." Roy began abruptly as they started back down the hallway. "Let me see Jean before he goes. Please."

"Roy..."

"Please! Maybe I can do something... I could... talk to Kimbley, at least. Ed wouldn't let me... But..." his voice wavered and he halted for a moment as if afraid he'd start crying again if he wasn't careful. "He's my friend... I have to try, Maes. I _have_ to."

Maes didn't say anything at first, but then his feet seemed to stop their composed forward march of their own free will and they paused in the middle of the corridor. He sighed heavily.

"...You can't. You aren't strong enough. You need rest so that you can heal. You almost died yesterday, do you not _get _that?"

"But I _didn't_ die. I'm alive, and it's my duty to—"

"I said no," Maes mumbled, pushing him forward again, a little faster this time. He would not be talked into letting Roy put himself in danger. He was going to bed. That was final. Maes would even cuff him again if he had to. Maybe he could get him moved to a bed that had restraints built into it, like the ones on Havoc's bed...

Roy, though, had other ideas. With surprising speed he threw his hands down and grabbed the wheels of his chair tightly, forcibly braking their progress. The chair jerked to stop so abruptly that he was almost flung forward out of his seat, but he managed to keep himself firmly in the chair, still gripping the wheels and breathing hard.

"Roy!"

"I w-want to help," he said, his voice gaining strength. "I can do this."

"No, you _can't_! You think you can, but you _can't_!" Maes practically bellowed at him, giving way to his anger again. "You need rest, so let go!" He tried to push the chair forward, but Roy would not be moved and used every bit of his nearly-depleted energy to keep himself rooted to the spot. He was already panting from the effort, and when Maes made another attempt to shove him forward he gave a sharp little cry of pain, the strain on his stomach muscles becoming too much for him to bear silently.

Maes immediately let go of the chair in response to his cry, knowing that if they continued this little battle of theirs that Roy could get seriously hurt. So he sighed loudly and worked his jaw for a moment, watching his friend's heaving back.

"I'll f-find a way to get to him, Maes..." Roy gasped after a moment. "I can't h-have this... on my conscience, too... Even if it kills me, I'll get to him... So, please... if you w-want... to keep me from getting hurt, then _help_ me."

Maes swallowed and leaned forward against the chair a little, bowing his head. He knew that Roy was right... he wasn't going to give up trying to get to Havoc, just for that one in a million chance that he'd be able to save him... or, if he couldn't do that, then just to sit with him for a while before he died. Roy was going to fight this every step of the way and—short of drugging him senseless again—there was probably no sure-fire way to keep him from accidentally hurting himself even more as he struggled to get to his friend. Wounded and exhausted though he was, Roy Mustang was clever and tenacious... he wasn't going to give in to this, no matter how much it hurt him.

"...Pain in the ass..." Maes grumbled, then made to turn the chair around. Roy let go of the wheels and Maes pushed him back toward the elevator. He was right... if he was going to do this anyway, Maes might as well help him; it was the only way that Roy would be kept out of harm's way. It was, Maes conceded darkly, the lesser of two evils.

"Thank you..." Roy whispered, wiping his eyes again.

"Yeah, yeah..." he groused offhandly, daring to reach toward him with one hand and ruffle his unwashed, hopelessly tangled hair.


	14. Breathe

Ed ran up the stairs two at a time, sprinting up the flights as fast as he could. He could hear Alphonse crashing around somewhere below, trying to catch up to him. But there was no way in hell that Ed was going to slow down for him; there was no time for that and he wasn't exactly happy with his little brother at the moment.

What had Al been _thinking_?! Was he _trying_ to get Mustang killed?! Al hadn't really given an explanation as to why he'd released Mustang from his bed, but perhaps he was just too kind-hearted to make him stay chained to a bed while his friend died... Al just couldn't stand to see people sad... he wasn't heartless enough—like Ed was—to let someone suffer like that, even if it was for their own good... Ed supposed he couldn't really be mad at Alphonse for that, could he...?

But still, it had been irresponsible and wrong of him to let Mustang go like that, to wander on his own... Man, the colonel had seemed pretty out of it; what if he'd been so disoriented that he'd left the hospital entirely? What if he was lost somewhere, medicated out of his mind...?

No. He had to be around here somewhere. They would find him and he'd be fine.

They had run into Fuery toward the bottom of the staircase, but he hadn't seen Mustang, either... he didn't seem too concerned about it, though. He just stared at Ed appraisingly for a moment—he didn't look at Al at all, oddly—his face equally calm and hopeless, then offered to call security to help find the colonel. But Ed had shaken his head no to that. If they could find the colonel without getting him in trouble with the hospital staff or—more importantly—Hughes, it would be better. They'd keep searching on their own for a bit, but if they couldn't find him up on the third floor, then they might not have much of a choice other than to get help...

Damn it, this was all so messed up. Everything was going wrong. Ed's stinging eyes started to blur again, but then he clenched his teeth hard to force back his weepy weakness. _Do _not_ start that again_, he warned himself. _Tears won't help_. _They never help._

He reached the third floor landing and flung the door open, revealing yet another long, generic corridor that looked almost exactly like the half a dozen others that he'd just sped through downstairs. He lurched forward at a quick trot, a little winded from racing up the stairs but not about to slow down. He had to find the colonel. If he died...

_No, no, no! Stop thinking shit like that!_ he scolded himself, rushing toward Havoc's room. Mustang would be fine. They would just find him and force him back to his room. He wouldn't be able to fight back. They'd just take him to bed quietly and no one would need to know anything. Hughes never needed to know that Mustang had left his room and no one would get in trouble. They would just—

As Ed rounded the corner though, he saw a sight that made his thoughts and his body screech to a flailing halt.

Only a few feet away, looking back at him in surprise as he stepped out of the elevator across the hall, was Lieutenant Colonel Hughes. Their eyes locked blankly for a moment, then Hughes' bemused gaze darkened into something that Ed had never seen before on the gentle man's face and, for just a split second, he actually feared for his life.

Hughes took five or six quick steps forward. His hand shot out and grabbed Ed by the front of his shirt before he could even think of jumping back out of reach. The big man dragged him up into the air and jerked him to eye-level, his gaze absolutely murderous.

"You careless little shit..." he breathed, his quiet voice shaking with rage. "How _could_ you...?"

Ed gaped at him—unable to move, let alone try to free himself from his grasp. If Hughes was here... and this angry... then something was wrong. They had found Mustang and he was hurt or dying or dead... He was going to toss Ed out of the military or strip him of his certification and, oh, he deserved it... It was all Ed's fault. If he and Al hadn't gone to Mustang's room in the first place...

"Put him _down_, Maes!"

Both Ed and Hughes looked down as Mustang appeared, rolling himself out of the elevator and into view astride a featureless black-and-metal wheelchair. His hair looked dirty and it hung in his shadowed, over-moist eyes. He almost looked as if he'd been crying until recently, as his face was pale and his eyes were outlined with dark red... but he was probably just tired and in pain...

But he looked okay, and Ed's insides shivered with relief. As worn and unkempt as Mustang looked right now, Ed didn't think that he'd ever seen anything so wonderful.

"He's gone against orders for the last time!" Hughes hissed, shaking Ed from his relieved daze, "If he wants to risk his own damn life that's up to him, but I cannot stand by and let him endanger _you_ because he can't fucking _listen_!"

"He didn't endanger me!" Mustang protested, his words coming out in a grating, breathless, half-slurred rasp. "He h-has nothing to do with this! I asked him to l-let me... go... but he refused."

"It's true!" Ed assured Hughes, grabbing at his clenched hands in an attempt to loosen them from his shirt. "I didn't let him go, I swear!"

Hughes' eyes narrowed in disbelief.

"On my honor, Maes... he didn't do anything wrong."

Mustang's last statement, though it was clearly directed at Hughes, resonated within Edward's skull. He didn't do anything wrong...? It was true, though; he really _hadn't_ done anything wrong this time by Hughes' definition. Mustang's freedom had been gifted by Alphonse. All that Ed had done was turn his back on his commander and deny him the right to see a dying friend...

But that, in Ed's mind, was just as terrible.

Still, Mustang's honor was apparently a powerful thing to swear by, for Hughes sighed to himself and set Edward back down on the floor.

Al chose that moment to come barreling up behind them, his metal feet striking the ground like sledgehammers. He took one look at Hughes and froze—much the same way that Ed had.

"Brother didn't do anything!" he squeaked earnestly at the sight of the anger still secured on Hughes' face. "I—"

"I already told him that Ed wouldn't help me, Alphonse," Mustang talked over him, giving him an odd, pointed look that was somehow just as awkward as it was direct. Al paused and stared at him for a beat, but then looked away, uncomfortable. Ed glanced back and forth between them, not exactly sure what was going on. Al hadn't really said much more than "I let Mustang go" before Ed flew into a panic to try and find him... but it seemed as if more than that had happened between his brother and the colonel—they couldn't even look each other in the eye. But at least Mustang seemed willing to cover for Al's transgression, whatever had happened between them...

Ed would have to weasel it out of Al later; now was certainly not the time.

"Well, if Ed didn't help you, then how the hell did you break the damn cuffs?" Hughes asked in exasperation. "That chain is solid steel!"

"I'm not telling you, in case I... h-have to do it again," Mustang retorted flatly, wiping his tired, sweat-prickled brow on the back of his arm. God he looked awful.

Hughes snorted like an angry horse. "Whatever, Roy. Come on," he said and started pushing the colonel down the hallway, toward Havoc's room.

After a beat or two, Ed trotted after them.

Al, he noted, did not.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Maes wheeled Roy down the hallway slowly, not really saying anything. Roy knew that he wasn't happy about this, but it had to be done. Roy couldn't just stand by and do nothing. He was probably going to fail in his attempts to sway Kimbley—he knew that—but he couldn't just stand back like a coward and let Jean be taken without a fight...

He reached up and rubbed his sore eyes with Maes' handkerchief. He could barely even keep himself from crying again, let alone try to form any sort of plan on what he was going to say to Kimbley—his head was pounding and he couldn't think... But did it even matter what he said...?

"...You okay?"

Roy looked up. Edward was walking next to him, his hands shoved nonchalantly into his pockets. He looked worried and a little ashamed, hesitant as if he was afraid that Roy was mad at him. _I'm sorry_, his eyes said silently. _I really am... But I still think you should be in bed._

"Not really," Roy made himself reply, pressing his eyes against the handkerchief again. He wasn't mad at Ed. He had done what he'd thought was right by leaving Roy chained to his bed. If more people in the world did what they thought was right, even if it hurt them, then perhaps Humanity would not be so depraved and damned as it was now. Maybe if Roy had been more like Edward in that respect, none of this would have happened. He never would have killed those doctors if he were like Fullmetal, because he'd known the whole time that it was wrong. He would have run from the ranks, like Marcoh had. He would have gone AWOL, because that entire war had been _wrong_ and to abandon it would have been the only righteous course of action. He wouldn't have cared about the consequences, if he were like Edward. Even if he had been caught during his flight, he would have rather been arrested than march back into that battle. He would have gladly swung from the gallows for treason, if it meant that his beliefs were still intact... because Edward was proud. Maybe too proud at times, but that indomitable pride kept him honest with himself and Roy envied him for having such a noble quality at his young age.

Roy had that pride now that he was older, and he looked back upon his former self with horror and shame. If only he had been like Ed then. If only he had...

The hot sting of salty tears stung his closed eyes again. The moisture leaked out from between his tightly shut lids and soaked into the still-damp handkerchief.

_Don't you dare_, he warned himself, swallowing back the urge to start sobbing again. _ Not in front of Edward_.

The wheelchair rolled to a gentle stop and Roy was compelled to lower the handkerchief a little, though he kept his head down a little so that Ed wouldn't notice his half-formed tears.

They were here.

"...Do you need a minute?" Maes asked quietly, moving to place his hand on the handle of hospital room's door. Roy shook his head, even though his eyes were sore from crying and his heart was still pounding so hard that it made his limbs tingle. He didn't need a minute; he needed a lifetime to prepare himself for this. What was he even going to _say_ to Kimbley? He really had no idea. Roy was always so well-spoken and able to read those around him and instantly formulate words to win their favor, but at the moment his tongue felt like cotton in his mouth and he just wasn't sure how to approach this. He was exhausted and his thoughts kept trailing off. He wanted to sleep. He wanted more drugs. He wanted something, _anything_ that would make the pain go away. He had fought so hard to get here to Havoc's side and the battle had taken a great toll on him, both physically and emotionally.

He couldn't even look Maes in the eye, let alone Edward...

He almost told Maes to just take him back to his room as he started to push the door open. _I'm not strong enough for this_, he wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut. He wanted to see Havoc—as pointless as it might be—because none of this was Havoc's fault. Kimbley was Roy's enemy, not Havoc's. He was the innocent, here, and he was likely going to die in spite of his faultlessness... Roy could not abandon him now, when he was only a few feet away.

_Ed_ wouldn't have run from this.

And so the door swung open, revealing Breda sitting helplessly at Havoc's bedside, while the patient whimpered and struggled to breathe, still fighting against his own looming death, like a hero in a fairytale who refuses to go down even when all hope is lost.

Breda looked up, then his eyes widened as they landed on Roy. He stiffened slightly in surprise, but then deflated again as a small, sad smile touched his lips.

"I figured you'd make it back up here, Colonel, one way or another," he teased quietly.

Roy swallowed hard, somehow wounded by the gratitude and admiration in Breda's eyes. He didn't deserve gratitude or admiration. He was just a man: a stupid, weak, worthless man.

Maes pushed him into the room, right up to Havoc's bedside.

Havoc looked awful. Roy might have sworn that he was already dead if it weren't for the fact that he was still breathing—if the choked, rattling puffs of air going in and out if his gurgling lungs could really be called breathing. His eyes were half open and the whites of them looked almost yellow, with little veins of red converging in the corners. He didn't look up as they approached, but Roy really hadn't expected him to. It didn't look like Jean was really here anymore. He was somewhere else, in a place so deeply ensconced within himself that he was now somehow beyond them. This was just his body, a shell that could do nothing now but feel pain.

"...I need to speak with them privately," Roy said over his shoulder, to Maes' warm, hovering presence at his back.

"...Of course," Maes said after a moment, sounding hesitant about leaving him alone with Kimbley but knowing that this was not a point to argue about. "Come on, Ed."

Roy heard two sets of slow, heavy footsteps turn and walk back out of the room. Breda took a long look at Havoc before getting to his own feet and starting to follow them out without a word.

"You can stay, Heymans," Roy told him softly, suddenly loath to steal these last few moments that he might have with his best friend. In spite of what he might hear, Roy couldn't do that to him. He was suffering enough.

Breda gave him another loving, grateful smile, but Roy looked back down at Havoc again without returning it.

After a short pause, the door to the room closed and Roy and Breda were left alone with the gasping body before them.

Roy licked his dry lips, steeling himself as he reached forward and gripped Havoc's shoulder.

"Kimbley," he summoned, his insides shuddering with cold fear as he spoke the monster's name, "I need to talk to you."

For a moment, nothing happened. After a few seconds though, when Roy was considering either calling him again or deciding that he was already too late, Havoc's eyes lazily rolled over to look at him. A slow, unearthly smile stretched itself out against his teeth lecherously and he looked Roy up and down with one powerful, demeaning glance.

"_You look like shit, Flame_."

Roy recoiled from him slightly, his instincts forcing him back against the wheelchair at the sound of Kimbley's words. Havoc's lips hadn't even moved when he spoke, nor had the words been in Havoc's voice as they had been before. It was Kimbley's voice, coming from his very soul rather than from his puppet's mouth. Perhaps it was because he was so weak now, but whatever the reason, Kimbley was speaking the way that Al spoke, with no physical aid... but the sweetness that Al's soul-voice carried sounded nothing like what was coming from Havoc.

If evil had a voice, it would be Kimbley's.

"You're looking pretty shitty yourself, Crimson," Roy said when he'd gathered the nerve.

"_I'd imagine so_," he replied silkily, his expression still frozen in that frightening smile. "_What do you want_?"

"You know what I want."

"_I want to hear you say it_."

Roy worked his jaw, his insides squirming. Kimbley was already toying with him. This endeavor was pointless; he wasn't going to listen, no matter what Roy said.

"...Jean Havoc is a good man," Roy said finally, hoping that no one noticed how his voice wavered. "He's done nothing wrong. He doesn't deserve this."

"_You're right, he doesn't. You do_."

"If I could trade places with him, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But I _can't_ and you know it..." Roy's tired, wavering voice broke a little and he winced, then cleared his throat and continued, "Please, Zolf. Just let him go."

"..._You're pathetic_," Kimbley sighed after a long silence, his smile disappearing into a grimace of hatred and disgust, as if Roy were an insect that he wanted to crush. "_You've always been pathetic. Just look at you_. _How you conned these seemingly intelligent people into following you, I'll never understand..._"

"Watch your mouth..." Breda growled from the other side of the bed. "He is a better man than you could ever be. You must be deluded to think that he—"

"Lieutenant, please," Roy cut him off gently and Breda sat back in his chair, obediently quiet. Roy took a moment to collect his thoughts from their lurching, scrambling fog, then cleared his throat. "Jean has nothing to do with this, Kimbley. What can I do to make you let him go?"

"_Kill yourself_," Kimbley said automatically, his smile returning. "_And let me watch. Slit your wrists. Blow your brains out. Jump out the window. Tear your wound back open with your bare hands and rip out your insides_..."

"We already told you that wasn't an option," Breda interjected again angrily, almost as if he were half-afraid that Roy might accept the terms in his current state. Roy gave him a look and he fell silent again, fuming where he sat, so full of hatred for the man possessing his best friend that Roy imagined that he could feel the emotion like a chill in the air.

But he was right; it really wasn't an option. Roy would be honored to be able to give his life for Havoc—for any of his subordinates, because he knew without a doubt that they would all freely give their own lives for him—but he couldn't. His goals were too important to be sacrificed for just one person. He was heading a revolution. He was changing the world. He was going to save millions of lives, and seek revenge for millions of others lost in pointless war. He was going to make things right in this country... and he couldn't ever break that promise, even at the cost of Havoc's life.

"My life is no longer my own to give," he said finally, feeling his defeat crushing down upon him even more heavily. "I have too many responsibilities that are beyond Havoc's importance... far beyond even my own. I can't shirk that by killing myself for you. I'm sorry."

"_Then we are at an impasse_," the demon said, closing his eyes. "_I'm tired... and I have nothing more to say; Lieutenant Havoc dies with me_."

"Is there no _other_ bargain we can strike?" Roy knew that the desperation in his voice was becoming more and more apparent, but he was quickly losing the ability to mask it. "Surely there's something else that I can offer you? I'll do anything else..."

Havoc's tired, sunken eyes opened again and rolled over to look at him, the blue of his irises looking inhumanly intense against his yellowed, bloodshot sclera.

"_Anything_?" he queried, the vulgar lilt in his voice striking Roy with a horrified sense of déjà vu.

_Except that..._ Roy's mind whispered in sick fear, a dark memory flashing into the back of his mind. _Anything but _that_._

"Just... just tell me what you want..." he stumbled, trying to play dumb—silently hoping that he was mistaking Kimbley's tone, but knowing deep down that he wasn't, "and I'll make it happen."

"_I think you know what I want from you_."

Roy swallowed hard, trying to ignore the warm bile burning in the back of his throat. It was for Havoc. He just had to keep reminding himself that it was for Havoc. That's all it was.

"...Breda, I'd like you to leave the room for a few minutes..." he said quietly—after a long, sick pause—without looking at the man he was addressing.

"What are you going to do...?" Breda asked tentatively, not moving from his seat.

"It doesn't matter. Just go."

"_No, let him stay, Roy-Boy_," Kimbley purred, "_I like an audience_."

Roy swallowed again and his heart started racing, bringing back the bloodless swarm of white spots to his vision. He didn't dare to look over at Breda, to see if he understood what was about to happen. He wouldn't be able to withstand seeing the disgust on his face when he realized how far Roy had sunk, and how willing he was to sink that far again.

"An audience for _what_?" Breda spat at Kimbley, still not getting it, and Roy felt a sudden jolt of love jump through his chest. The lewdness in Kimbley's voice was unmistakable and Breda wasn't stupid... moreover, he had most likely been in the room when Kimbley had divulged Roy's secrets to Alphonse and Maes, and so had already heard of this ugly scar on his colonel's already-pocked soul... yet this wasn't apparent to him. He didn't believe his colonel capable of something so low, so the thought that the gallant Roy Mustang was offering himself as a whore would never even cross his mind. He had so much faith and respect for Roy that he couldn't even see what was right in front of his face.

"_For when he sucks me off, my dear friend. I've already told you how much he enjoys pleasuring men_," Kimbley answered him, pursing Havoc's lips in an amused pout. "_Now you can witness it for yourself._"

"Oh, fuck you. He's not going to..."

But then he trailed off, and out of the corner of his eye, Roy saw Breda look over. Maybe it was because Roy wasn't defending himself, or the fact that he couldn't meet Breda's eyes... but whatever the case, in the silence of that room Roy could practically feel the first painful hooks of doubt sink themselves into his lieutenant's flesh.

"Colonel... you..." he began, but then stopped again.

"I'd really appreciate it if you left the room," Roy told him again, head down, staring at his hands, willing them to stop trembling.

And there it was. The truth, naked and obscene, bared at last to those who had been blindfolded to it all these years. _Yes, I am a monster!_ Roy's jittery, half-hysterical mind screeched at him. _Yes, I'm filthy and cowardly and perverse and you should run from me while you can, before I contaminate you further._

"So it's true."

Roy's heart stuttered and he absorbed the resonation of those three words for several beats before he could finally bring himself to look up.

Breda's face was absolutely closed. There was no expression of revulsion or hatred, but neither was there kindness or forgiveness. There was nothing but the standard military façade, with perhaps a touch of lost disbelief stirring just under the mask.

"What Kimbley said about you and him during the war," Breda continued, looking at him levelly, giving him nothing. "It's true."

Roy nodded slowly, fighting back another up-flow of bile as his vision hazed over even more with grey-white exhaustion, his blood pressure rising again. He closed his eyes, bowing his head a little as he felt the cold wave of an oncoming swoon.

_Don't pass out, don't pass out, don't pass out_, he told himself. As if that would make any difference.

"If it saves his life, Heymans..." Roy tried to defend himself, but even to his own ears he sounded small and frail, nothing like the powerful, stoic Colonel that he was supposed to be. God, Kimbley was right... he was so pathetic. He didn't deserve these men. How could they have ever chosen to follow such a useless creature?

"No. Not like this. I know Jean and he wouldn't want this. He would rather die. _I_ would rather die than make you... service Kimbley again..."

"_Oh, you act like I forced him..."_ Kimbley mumbled, rolling his eyes. "_He did it of his own free will. I was only helping him out. I made the suggestion as a joke, I never thought he'd actually do it, the freak_."

For a moment, Roy couldn't breathe.

"...Then... then why would you make me do that?" he managed finally, incredulous. "We could have struck some other bargain..."

"_Fuck, Mustang, the whole point of even suggesting that was to make you grow up and take care of the bodies yourself. I had no idea you'd actually go down on me rather than bury a couple of corpses_."

"But you didn't stop me!" he shouted, voice cracking. "You let m-me..."

"_I was trying to help you! Goddamn it, I was _always_ trying to help you, but you were always fucking up_!"

"How can you say that you were _helping_ me? H-how can you honestly _think_ that, after everything that you...?"

"_You're too sensitive, that's your problem. Everything got to you and every time I tried to toughen you up, you just shut down!"_ Kimbley shouted back, eyes blazing with old frustration,_ "I can't even count how many times I had to practically drag you back to camp after a raid, because you'd be too broken up to know left from right! You would have never survived without me! You owe me your career! You owe me your _life_, Mustang!_"

He fell silent for a beat, then Havoc's body stiffened and a strangled moan choked out of him. Kimbley grimaced and clenched his teeth, the smallest cry of pain emanating from his consciousness.

"_And what thanks did I get_?" Kimbley went on tightly as Havoc's body continued to whimper alongside him. "_You helped send me to prison, and you knew how sick I was. I would have gotten off if it weren't for your testimony_... _You stole the last few years that I had left, you bastard, and you knew it the whole time._"

"You deserve prison..." Roy whispered, "You're a murderer."

"_SO ARE YOU_!"

"But I didn't kill for the fun of it! I was just doing my job, you made it a game and you _liked_ it!"

"_How is that any worse than what you did? Sure, I enjoyed my work and I did my job well... but you hated it and you hated yourself for doing it, yet you did it anyway! I would never do anything that went against my beliefs just because someone told me to do it. I may be a monster, Mustang, but I'm no coward and at least I h-have my integrity... a-and I.._."

Kimbley's harsh words broke and dissolved into an agonized scream. Havoc's body writhed on the bed, adding it's own pained voice to Kimbley's cry.

"_I-it's over, you son of a bitch_," Kimbley managed from between his gasping screams. _"I'm taking him from you be... because I want you to suffer... It's over..._"

Then his eyes closed and his voice disappeared, leaving only Havoc's delirious, moaning, crying, empty body before them.

The sob that Roy had been struggling to hold back for the better part of the conversation finally broke free and he buried his face against Maes' handkerchief again. He had lost. Again. And there was nothing that he could do about it. As Kimbley had said, it was over... or, at least, it would be very soon.

From the other side of the bed, Roy heard Breda get up from his seat. He was going to leave Roy for sure, like Al had already left, like Ed surely would once he found out all that Roy had done... and Havoc was already mostly gone. Roy's tower had broken down and now all of his carefully chosen pieces would be scattered to the wind... It was over.

Roy couldn't bring himself to take the handkerchief from his face, even as he heard a heavy clunking sound right next to him, as if Breda put something down beside him.

Then there was silence for a long time as Roy wiped his eyes and tried to breathe evenly. His wound was hurting and his heart was still racing and, God, it was so fucking cold in here. He sniffled and shivered as quietly as he could, as pathetic as a child. He wanted to go home. He wanted to die. He wanted this all to just be some awful nightmare, and when he woke up and went back to work he'd tell the guys about it over coffee: "Damn, I had the weirdest dream last night..."

And Havoc would laugh. Breda would smirk and tell him that he was crazy. Fuery would stare off pensively, thinking of the symbolism of it. Hawkeye would make some comment about how he should stop drinking scotch before bed. And Maes would shove a stack of pictures in his face, proclaiming loudly that Elysia's cuteness would take away all of his sorrows, subconscious or otherwise.

But no. This was real and the consequences were far more dire that a few hours of lost sleep. He doubled over in despair and pain, cowering in on himself in his wheelchair, hating himself for the anguish and destruction that he'd inadvertently caused everyone.

Roy heard the sigh of shifting fabric, then felt something warm and heavy lay itself across his back. He looked up and was startled by the sight of Breda standing over him, draping his military jacket around his shoulders.

"You looked cold," the man told him simply without really looking at him, then turned and sat in the chair that he had apparently carried over so that he could sit next to Roy, so close that their shoulders touched. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms, staring over at Havoc. There were tears in his eyes.

Roy tried to thank him, but his attempt at any kind of speech was thwarted by the tightness in his throat, so he just nodded, gritted his teeth, and wept.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_They weren't going to last long enough to see his mother._

_It hadn't taken long after Hughes' departure to go call her for Jean to realize that time was growing very short indeed._

_The dream-world was eating itself, now, destroying itself, dying as Jean and Kimbley died. Bottomless fissures gaped in the parched ground next to them, where they sat back to back—leaning against each other, gasping and moaning. The sun on the horizon was cracked like an egg, thin fractures crawling across its pale, scorching surface. Chunks of the sky were missing completely, tearing black voids into the red desert skies of Ishbal._

_Even in his floundering, confused thoughts, the fact that his mind had chosen to take them to Ishbal had been surprising at first. Jean had never been to this country, yet he saw it now—this little desert village sitting quietly beside them—in such great detail that he marveled at the power of imagination. But then after a few moments he realized that this wasn't his dream at all anymore: it was Kimbley's._

_They were entwined now, in mind and soul, conjoining as they began the final decent into death. Pictures flashed in front of Jean's eyes, his failing brain grasping in the dark for something to hold on to. He saw a blond boy, playing with Heymans in the stream... he saw a dark-haired, skinny boy nursing a black eye in a bathroom mirror, and for a moment he honestly couldn't remember which of these children he had once been. Kimbley's thoughts and memories trickled into his own, just brief gasps of time, like photographs—a barrage of frozen moments._

_Jean wondered if they would have any identity separate from one another at all by the time Death finally claimed them._

_"I'd k-kill for a cigarette... right about now..." Jean tried to laugh though the pain._

_"Fuck, me too..." Kimbley agreed, the muscles in his back quivering against Jean's._

_"You smoke?"_

_"I did... bef-fore I was arrested."_

_"Huh. Guess that's another th-thing we have in c-common..."_

_They lapsed into silence again, not knowing what to say to each other. They were supposed to hate one another, but as the end came nearer and their consciousnesses melded closer together, the hatred was disappearing into a strained, awkward kind of camaraderie. They were dying together, and neither of them felt like fighting anymore. Still, there was still something that Jean felt he should say._

_"Mustang really is a good person, Zolf... H-he really is. You don't have to believe me... but it's true."_

_Kimbley didn't say anything. He'd been pretty quiet since his argument with Mustang—an argument that had clearly taken a toll on them both. Each of them had been waiting so long to confront the other with what they had done, and in the wake of that catharsis they were both left shaking and empty. _

_Mustang was out there crying and Jean could hear Heymans talking to him softly, perhaps even crying with him. Kimbley was in here with Jean, trembling, his imagined heart racing with the injustice that he was feeling... because he really _did_ believe that he'd been helping Mustang out in Ishbal. How deluded Kimbley had to be to really think that... but it was true... and, God, it was so sad that Jean couldn't help but pity him and his warped mind. Kimbley had seen Mustang as a kind of lost lamb and had made it his duty to help the young Flame Alchemist get over the horror he felt every time he killed... because he _had_ to get over it. He would never survive it he didn't just _get the fuck over it_ and plow on._

_Kimbley had been numbed to those horrors long before he ever even went to war. Death was something that had been haunting him for a while by then, a shadowy specter that looked back at him every time he passed a window and caught his reflection in the glass. All Kimbley had wanted was to numb Mustang the way the he himself had been numbed... because it was just easier that way, and he could tell that young Mustang was still too fragile to carry the weight of his sins without some kind of barrier. He had felt that Mustang either needed to suck it up or leave. Mustang had done neither. Instead he had stayed and had nearly destroyed himself because of it._

_Kimbley felt betrayed and was disgusted by him. As Kimbley had told Mustang, he was not the kind of person who would ever go against what he believed in. He had believed in that war, and had loved the chance to practice his alchemy on living targets while he was still well enough to see any kind of action. Kimbley knew how much Mustang hated that war and how unjust he thought it was, and yet he fought in it anyway. _That_ was what bothered Kimbley most about Mustang. He would have preferred that Mustang flee to another country over him killing thousands upon thousands of people against his will just because he was ordered to. In Kimbley's mind, there is no cowardice greater than losing yourself, especially to a cause you don't even believe in._

_And then on top of that, Mustang's testimony at Kimbley's brief and unfairly orchestrated trial finally sealed his hatred. Mustang had offered himself as a character witness—_knowing_ that Kimbley was already dying of cancer—and denounced him as a vile human being to the entire courtroom. And that was all it had taken to seal his fate. His sentence really wasn't all that bad, as a psychologist added on a temporary insanity plea caused by wartime stress... but twelve years in solitary was more than enough time for him to succumb to his disease... and Kimbley could never forgive Mustang for hammering that last nail into his coffin._

_All this information and more battered around inside of Jean's head in a series of images and streams of words, coming directly from Kimbley's own distressed thoughts... And—even though he did not agree with Kimbley's actions, and as guilty as he felt for even thinking it—he had to admit to himself that he did see Kimbley's point._

"_He's not like that anymore..." Jean continued, "He would never do something that went against his beliefs..."_

_Kimbley shifted to look at him over his shoulder. "He almost just did. W-weren't you watching? He was going to suck your cock."_

_Jean swallowed back embarrassment. "That's different. He was doing it to save me, not to shrug off a responsibility... You c-can't compare..."_

_A sudden surge of agony shot through Jean like a bolt of electricity and he screamed, clutching his head in his hands. He could hear Kimbley cry out behind him, throwing his head back against Jean's shoulder and shrieking helplessly._

_The fissure in the ground near them widened and swallowed a shabby little house on the edge of the village. It didn't make any sound as it fell, or at least Jean couldn't hear anything over the sound of his own screams. The cracks in the sun gaped like black wounds and the blood-colored sky above them shattered, sending shards of __stratosphere tumbling to the ground._

_This was it. Jean could feel it in his bones._

"_He's trying to overthrow Bradley..." Jean started again desperately, for some reason just wanting to make him understand before they died. It was something that he'd never told anyone—under Mustang's strict orders—but who was Kimbley going to tell? "H-he's forming a coup so that he can take over the government and eventually turn it back into a democracy once everything is stabilized, the way it was in our grandfather's time..."_

_Once again, Kimbley kept his peace, just hugging himself and moaning. This time though, his wordlessness seemed abruptly uncertain. The air of hate and fear and pain around him mingled into a quiet disbelief. But Kimbley probably had just as much access to Jean's thoughts and Jean had to his, and so knew that his words were true. Jean tried to make Kimbley feel the love and respect that Jean still felt—and would always feel—for his commander, in spite of what he'd learned about him in the past few days..._

_...And after a moment, Kimbley finally made himself speak._

"_Good for him..." he said, sounding surprised with how much he actually meant it. "I'm glad he's finally growing up."_

"_He's fighting so hard to make up for everything that happened in Ishbal, and all the rest of us want to do is help him. That's all I want to do."_

"_And so I suppose you w-want me to... let you go so that you can finish helping him?" he sneered, though the quavering pain in his voice stole any possible malice from his words._

"_I'm not asking you f-for anything. I know you don't want to die alone."_

_Kimbley looked up at him, his golden eyes widening at his words and briefly reflecting the light of the fractured sun. But then he sighed, and for just a moment Jean imagined that he could see the real him, the sick, scared man who had been waiting for death every day for the past seven years._

"_God_damn_ it," Crimson said, closing his eyes._

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Heymans sat next to Mustang, one of his arms slung over his back in a lazy half-embrace. They were just waiting silently, both of them just staring at Jean, dry-eyed now that they'd collected themselves. Hughes had come back into the room shortly after Kimbley's departure back into the unknown recesses of Havoc's body. Edward had come in close behind and stood at Mustang's other side, shooting him uncertain, sympathetic glances every few moments. Fuery, Hawkeye, and Al had all come in at some point, too, but Heymans couldn't remember when. He was too focused on Jean, tensely watching him each time he exhaled and silently praying each time that he had enough life left in him to inhale again. The pause between breaths was becoming longer and longer... and everyone knew that soon it would stop altogether.

A doctor stood on the other side of Jean's bed, removing his IV line. It wasn't much use anymore. None of the antibiotics or last-ditch elixirs had had any effect on him, and now even the medical staff had officially given up.

"It won't be long," the doctor told them quietly as he bowed himself back out of the room, to leave them alone to grieve. "I'm sorry."

And then there was silence again.

Heymans kept trying to think of what he was going to say to Mama Havoc when she got here. She wasn't going to make it in time, that much was clear... so he was going to have to sit her down and tell her that her only child had died. He would probably have to make something up about how he had gotten so sick in the first place, because surely he couldn't tell her the truth. Had the situation been different, Mustang probably would have already come up with a flawless story to tell her in lieu of what had actually happened, but the colonel was too overcome at the moment to be really thinking about such things.

Mustang looked so sick and weak, and it was clear that his mind was just as affected by his wounds as his body. After he'd composed himself, he'd fallen completely still and silent, hardly even blinking as he stared at his fallen comrade, as motionless and expressionless as a grim doll, his head propped on his pale hand. What he'd do when Jean finally died, Heymans didn't know...

"..._Mustang_..."

Mustang jumped a little at Kimbley's voice, then grimaced as the motion pulled at his wound. All eyes in the room flashed over to Jean. His eyes were open again, looking directly at Mustang, though it appeared as if he was having trouble keeping them open.

"What the fuck do you want, now?" Mustang rasped quietly without even raising his head.

"_You... to listen to m-me..."_ Kimbley said urgently, his bodiless voice seeming to cut in and out like a weak radio transmission. _"...want you to remove the circle..."_

"Why? So that Jean can die even faster?" Heymans hissed, trying to cover his grief with anger.

"..._Letting him go_..."

Mustang and Heymans both stiffened. He was lying, right? He was just bluffing to give them one last dose of torture, allowing them to think for just one moment that there might be a chance.

"..._Burn it off when... tell you_..."

"But why are you suddenly changing your mind?" Mustang demanded, wanting to believe, but unable to let down his guard. "What's your motive?"

"_Fuck, do you want him... live or not?"_

"...What do we have to lose?" Edward asked, looking down at Mustang, "If he's going to die anyway..."

Mustang cleared his throat uncomfortably, but then nodded. "Fine, Kimbley. Ed, when he tells you to, burn off the circle," he said, readopting some thin semblance of the military prowess he'd had only days ago.

Ed ran over to the other side of the bed and hiked up Jean's gown enough to get at the gauze on his leg. He pulled it off and looked down at the circle, waiting for the order, so desperate to do anything to make things right again that he practically trembled with eagerness.

A hush fell over everyone as they waited for the signal, all of them holding their breaths. Kimbley remained silent for a long time though, and that tiny, icy glimmer of hope harbored in the back of Heymans' mind dimmed again. Kimbley was just fucking with them. He wasn't going to let Jean go. He had said himself that he wanted Mustang to suffer, and dragging Jean down with him was his last chance to do so... he wasn't going to give that up, just out of the kindness of his heart...

"_Do it now_!" Kimbley barked suddenly.

...Was he?

Edward clapped his hands together and touched Jean's leg. The room abruptly filled with the smoky stench of burning flesh and Jean's eyes flew open wide, rolling into the back of his head as if he was having a seizure. Ed jumped back from him in alarm as Jean's back rose up off the bed and he drew in a long, shuddering breath that sounded more like a death-rattle than real respiration.

But then Jean's rigid body relaxed and he fell back onto the bed, his tired lungs deflating themselves in a great rush.

...He did not take another breath.

"Oh... Mustang," Ed whispered in horror, backing away and putting his hand over his mouth as if he was going to be sick. "...I think I killed him..."

Heymans' stomach clenched and he looked back over at Havoc's still face. His head was lolled to the side and his sweaty, unruly bangs obscured one of his half-open eyes. His visible eye was completely lifeless, the pupil dilating like a drop of ink spreading across the surface of his iris.

Mustang bowed his head and laid his hand across his brow helplessly.

"Someone go get his physician..." he sighed. "Have them call time of death."

"Yes, sir," Hughes said. Heymans didn't turn to look at him—his eyes were still to riveted to his best friend's body—but he could hear from the tautness of his voice that he was either crying or damn near.

_Oh... Oh, Jean... We tried_...

He heard Hughes leave the room, followed by several others in the company. Perhaps they thought that Heymans and Mustang might like to be alone with the body for a few moments before the doctor came in and made them leave. Whatever the case, Heymans was glad to hear them go. Only Mustang and Ed remained with him in the room—Mustang sitting silently at his side and Ed still standing on the other side of the bed, still looking ready to either puke or burst into tears at any second.

"Guess that's it, then," Heymans said and got to his feet. He leaned over Jean's body and gently closed his eyelids with the tip of his fingers. Then he let his fingers trail down across his pale cheek, trying to memorize every aspect of his face, even though he already knew it by heart. If this was the last time that he'd ever be able to look at Jean Havoc, he might as well make it count.

As he was looking though, struggling to see him through the renewed haze of tears, Jean's eyes opened again. He didn't look at him, though. It was probably a normal post-mortem tick, right...? It probably happened all the time...

But still... to be sure...

"Jean...?" he called softly, stroking his cheek again.

Mustang looked up, his own eyes spilling over even as his face brightened with hope.

For a moment though, nothing happened and Heymans felt his heart break. No, it was over. He had to stop hoping. He had to believe it now; Jean was dead. He stepped back again and sank down into his chair. Jean was dead...

As if done specifically to contradict that last thought, Jean's body jerked and he sucked in a huge, wet-sounding gasp. He coughed and choked, trying to roll over on his side, but was kept in place by the straps holding his arms down.

Heymans jumped up again with a joyous cry, knocking his chair sideways and nearly tripping on Mustang's wheelchair as he lurched back over to him, taking his face in his hand.

"Good, that's good, Jean... Just keep breathing, that's it..." he sobbed, not knowing what else to do other than try to encourage him.

Ed, who had been watching Jean's revival in a shocked daze, snapped out of it and bolted toward the door. He wrenched it open and leaned out into the hallway.

"Where the hell is that doctor?!" he shouted down the corridor.

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((A/N: Ack, forgive me for the late update. I suck, I know. There's one chapter left, and I HOPE to have it up sometime this week.))


	15. Tomorrow

_It was so quiet. _

_Never in his entire life had Jean ever heard a silence so profound and so welcoming. He wanted the silence and the featureless black blankness surrounding him to swallow him up and take him away. _

_It was comforting..._

_Soft..._

_It didn't hurt anymore..._

_If this was death, then he supposed it wasn't so bad._

"Havoc?"

_A man appeared beside him, all dressed in black so that he seemed to fade into the darkness around them. It was Mustang. Jean sighed and turned to him. _

"_What now?" he asked quietly, knowing that the vision before him wasn't real, but just desperately wanting someone to talk to. "It's over, right? So... is this it?"_

_The only answer he got was his own voice echoed back to him, resounding in the black, faint and lost-sounding. Mustang didn't even look up. He was staring downward at his feet—or so Jean supposed, as Mustang's black attire made everything aside from his head, neck, and hands nearly invisible in the ethereal darkness. He seemed insubstantial somehow, as delicate and thin as a spiral of cigarette smoke._

_...God, Jean wanted a cigarette. Like, really, _really_ badly. The craving hadn't been so bad before, when he'd had things to distract him... things like pain, and Kimbley, and anger... but now they were gone. All of it, gone. There was nothing, now... And for a while, there had been even less than nothing._

_The last thing that Jean remembered was Kimbley taking him roughly by the shoulders, squeezing him so hard that it should have hurt, but somehow it didn't._

_"Don't let him fail," Kimbley had said urgently, as the unstable ground rumbled and cracked under their feet. "Help him take Bradley down, if that's what he believes in. Just keep him from slipping back into being the pathetic creature that he was, you get me? That shit irritates the hell out of me."_

_"Wait, what...?" Jean had sputtered, not yet understanding._

_"You have a duty!" Kimbley continued, screaming now to be heard over the roar of the universe collapsing around them, sucking everything away into the abyss of eternity. "You're here to fix the mistakes that bastard has made, okay? Make him into something that really deserves to live, if I'm not allowed to kill him!"_

_Then he'd pushed Jean away and threw his head back, his wide eyes regarding the crumbling heavens, his arm spread to embrace it all._

_"Do it now!"_

_And then, like the world around him, he'd broken apart. His body had shattered into splinters of light and dispersed, impressing Jean with one last, sardonic smirk before everything went black._

_For a long time after that there had been only blackness and silence. Jean couldn't say how long. Maybe a few hours. Maybe a year or two... or ten thousand. Jean had thought that it would never end, that blackness, where not even the company of dreams could comfort him._

"Are you awake?"

_Mustang's voice rang out again, bringing Jean back to the here and now—even if words like "here" and "now" meant absolutely nothing, wherever and whenever and whatever he was. Jean looked over at him, but he was still staring down, unmoving and blank, pale and vacant._

_"I have no idea," Jean sighed, rubbing his face. "I'm starting to wonder if I was ever awake at all, you know?" But then he stopped and laughed, shaking his head. "I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore. I'm so _tired_, Mustang... I'm so goddamn tired."_

"Hey. Havoc."

_Jean scowled at him, sincerely not wanting to be pestered by a subconscious phantom at the moment, as lonely as he was... _

But then his Everything jolted and twisted itself into something else entirely as something soft and vaguely warm hit him in the face. His eyes snapped open in surprise, but then he winced and shut them again against the powder-pink sunrise coming in through the window. It wasn't really all that bright, but after being in darkness for so long, even that gentle, early-morning glow was enough to hurt his eyes. It was several beats before he ventured to open them again and turn his head gingerly to see what had hit him.

It appeared to be a pillow, laying placidly beside him, it's forward momentum apparently halted by its collision with his head. He looked at it stupidly, not really able to put together what force could have possibly put it there.

He was on a bed.

In a dimly-lit room.

And a pillow had just hit him in the face.

"...Jean?"

The voice startled him, but his muscles were too tired to even twitch in surprise. He felt numb and heavy and perhaps not _quite_ fully conscious, but after a moment of thought he was able to look toward the source of the voice, forcing his eyes to focus on the figure in the bed beside his.

It was Mustang, raising himself up on one elbow and looking at him. His face was hesitant and his eyes were hazy; he looked as if he'd either just woken up or was about to go to sleep. When Jean met his eyes, the faintest touch of relief seemed to touch Mustang, relaxing the rigidity of his jaw a little.

"...Good morning," the colonel said after a moment, allowing himself a small smile. "Welcome to the land of the living."

Jean blinked at him uncertainly. The land of the living? So he really was alive, then—sharing a hospital room with Mustang by the looks of it. Weird. After he'd been preparing for death for so many countless hours, it was a little jarring to think that Death had passed him by with little more than a familiar wave before taking Kimbley and sinking with him back into the threads of eternity.

So Kimbley really had let him live... go figure.

"...How're you feeling?" Mustang tried again, and only then did Jean realize that the man was just trying to get him to talk, most likely to see it he was lucid... or perhaps to establish whether or not his mind had been damaged by Kimbley...

..._Had_ he been damaged...? For a minute there he wondered, because for the life of him he couldn't seem to remember how to use his mouth. But then, through the clouds of lethargy, he managed to find his voice.

"...Empty," he said, the word coming out in the parched croup of an old man.

"You feel empty?" Mustang queried again delicately, apparently unsure if that was a good response.

Jean nodded dazedly, then coughed. His vocal chords felt almost dusty with disuse. "In a good way, I guess..."

"Ah."

Jean reached up and rubbed his face, trying to rally himself against the deep, bone-tired exhaustion that was weighing him down.

"How long was I out?" he asked after a few beats, looking over at his superior again. He looked nervous.

"A few days, I think... I'm not entirely sure how long it's been. I've been pretty drugged for the past few days myself... I think this is the most alert I've been in the past week..."

"...Are you okay?"

Mustang smirked tiredly. "I will be. I just have a lot of healing to do."

"...Am _I_ okay?" Jean asked, looking over at the IV needle tucked into his arm and glancing down at his bandaged hands. He only vaguely remembered them being sliced open in the interrogation room... And then there were the bullet holes in his legs... He hadn't really even been given a chance to look at those...

"Yeah, you'll be fine..." Mustang assured him, calling his thoughts away from his wounds. "Your fever broke almost immediately after Kimbley... left. Your organs are already well on their way to repairing themselves. At this rate, you'll be out of here long before I will. The doctors are calling it a miracle..."

Mustang stopped for a moment, then grinned amusedly. "Rumor got around the hospital that all Ed did was put his hands on you, and then you were magically cured. The nurses think that he's a faith healer and keep following him around, ogling him every time he comes into the hospital. I don't think I've ever seen him get so flustered. It's hilarious."

Jean chuckled, but the laughter hurt his chest, so he quickly stopped. It didn't really hurt all that bad in comparison to what he'd just been through, but it wasn't pleasant.

"Your mother has practically adopted him," Mustang went on, "Thinks he's a hero... She's staying with Breda, as I'm sure you would have guessed. I'm sure they'll both stop by when visiting hours start... I don't think your mother would even leave the hospital at all if the staff didn't throw her out every night. Yesterday, I thought she was going to punch one of the security guards when he told her to leave..."

Jean had to laugh again at that. Yeah, that sounded like his mom.

"...You should probably get some more sleep before she comes by," the colonel suggested, his voice very soft. "You look like you've been hit by a truck."

"Mmph... That's not far off from how I feel..." he agreed, only too willing to go back to sleep. There were a lot of things that he had to think about... And sleep was probably the only the solace from those thoughts he'd be able to find just now...

Silence came into the room then, sudden and awkward. Jean closed his eyes against it, waiting for sleep to come for him again.

"But... but I suppose we're going to need to talk about some things..." Mustang whispered quietly, the words strained as if he was forcing himself to say them. "...Eventually. I don't know everything that Kimbley might have said to you... but..."

Jean's heart squirmed and shuddered at that, completely side-swiped by the pain in Mustang's voice. He opened his eyes again and looked over. "...We don't need to talk about it. It's none of my business," he whispered.

Mustang worked his jaw, but then made himself continue. "I think it _is_ your business, considering everything that—"

"We don't need to talk about it," Jean said again, trying to make his thin, raspy voice sound firm. "I already know everything, so there's no real need to discuss it." He stopped, then eyed his superior. "Unless you... you know... _need_ to talk about it, because we can if—"

"No. I really don't," he said quickly, embarrassed.

"Okay, then. It's fine," Jean shrugged, trying desperately to seem flippant about it.

It wasn't fine. They both knew that, and they both knew that things were going to be a little strained between them for a while. Even if they pretended that everything was okay, that awkward tension would still be there, as thick and heavy as it suddenly was now. But, eventually, it would go away. Jean was sure of that... it was just going to take a while.

...But whether or not Mustang really believed it, he was pretty much stuck with Jean. He wasn't going anywhere, no matter what Mustang had done in the past. It was that simple.

"So, how is everyone else... um... handling everything?" Jean ventured.

Mustang sighed and rested his head back down on his pillowless hospital bed. "Good, I suppose. It's... hard right now, though. Alphonse is avoiding me. Ed's not, but I think it scares him a little to see us in here... Hawkeye and Fuery are just keeping quiet; they haven't really made any comments about anything at all. Breda and Maes, on the other hand, can't seem to leave me alone... I can't stand the way that they look at me now..."

His voice wavered a little and he had to stop and clear his throat before going on. "I'm going to address this. I'm going to call a meeting and explain everything that Kimbley told them. I'm tired of lying, of hiding things from you. You all deserve more than that, if we are going to make it to the top together. And if... if anyone wants to leave afterward, that's their decision. I just w-want everyone to know..."

He trailed off again, turning his head to stare at the ceiling. The pale morning light coming in through the window brightened the moisture in his bloodshot eyes for a moment before he closed them and let out a long, steadying sigh.

Jean had always known that Mustang deeply appreciated his staff and all that they had helped him achieve so far—both publicly and in secretive, more important ways that could get them executed for treason if the fuehrer ever got wind of it. What Jean _hadn't_ realized before all of this—even though it had been staring him in the face for years—was that Mustang truly loved them, and valued them as something much more than a loyal staff. If any of them left him now, it wouldn't just greatly inconvenience his rise to the top... it would break his heart.

"None of us are going to leave. Come on, Roy, you have to know that..." Jean whispered, both touched and saddened by his realization.

Mustang said nothing for a moment, but Jean could see his throat working as if he was fighting to swallow back a lump.

Jean felt a similar tightness in his throat and closed his eyes, knowing that Mustang didn't believe him and knowing just as well that there was nothing that he could say to make him think otherwise.

So Jean didn't say anything at all and just sighed, willing sleep to come for him swiftly. Thing would look better later. The outlook would be brighter after he'd gotten some more rest...

"...Jean?"

He opened his eyes and looked over again. Mustang was still staring up at the ceiling, unblinking, as if all the answers in the world were written between the cracks in the paint. One of his arms was outstretched toward Jean, his hand open and inviting. Jean didn't hesitate to reach over and grip his friend's hand in his own, each of them squeezing the other's wrist in a brotherly clasp. At that immediate sign of forgiveness and acceptance, Mustang closed his eyes tightly.

Yes. Everything would work out. Jean knew it in his heart as they silently released each other and laid back in their respective beds, both of them exhausted beyond words. Jean closed his eyes again, the weight on his chest suddenly a little lighter.

"...Jean?" the colonel called again, sounding even more tentative.

"What?"

"...Can I have my pillow back?"

Jean reopened one eye and exhaled a loud sigh in mock-exasperation before grabbing up the offending pillow and tossing it over to him. Mustang caught it a little clumsily—as it hit him in the chest hard enough to make him scowl at his lieutenant—and tucked it under his head, curling up in the hospital sheets with a huge yawn.

"Get some sleep," Jean told him fondly and let his open eye fall shut again.

They were both asleep almost immediately and neither of them dreamt anything at all. They're minds were both blissfully blank in the hold of sleep, like a slate that has just been erased—freed from the vulgarity and horrors that had once been scrawled across it. As far as their subconsciouses were concerned, they had both been wiped clean of all evil for the time being—both evils that they had done, and evils that had been done to them.

What they chose to fill the space with tomorrow was their own choice, but for now all was pristine and innocent, just waiting to be imprinted with something new.

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((A/N: That's it! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it.))


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